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Januabt,  1909— June,  1909 


COPTRIOHT,   1909, 

By  the  forum  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 

NcjJ.iUlKV,   (,  iiv 

f-'.'JK>.\K'y    "    /  ^ 


•^  -  PAGE 

-^gis    of    Civil    Service    Reform, 
The.      By     Henry     Litchfield 

West  401 

"After-Election  Boom,"  The.     By 

Alexander  D.  Noyes 9 

Agnew,  P.  G. 

What  Is  Pragmatism? 70 

Alden  and  the  New  Realism,  Mr. 

By  Frederic  Taber  Cooper...  284 
Alfred  Noyes  on  William  Morris. 

By  Walter  Clayton 176 

American  Politics,  1,  95,  199,  289,  401, 

American  University  on  Trial,  The. 

By  Abram  S.  Isaacs 439 

Araminta  ..33,  146,  242,  352,  458,  561 
Back  from  the  Hospital.    By  Lewis 

Worthington  Smith 90 

Balkan  Crisis  and  the  Macedonian 
Question,    The.      By    Norman 

Dwight  Harris 102 

Barker,  Klsa, 

Keats 288 

Books  Reviewed 

Aloyse    Valerin.      By    Edouard 

Rod  78 

Chapters  of  Opera.     By  Henry 

Krehbiel  480 

David  Bran.  By  Morley  Roberts  396 
Egoists.  By  James  Huneker..  600 
Eternal    Boy,    The.      By    Owen 

Johnson    177 

Fraternity.  By  John  Galsworthy  390 
Friendship    Village.     By    Zona 

Gale    89 

Glass  House,  The.    By  Florence 

Morse  Kingsley 614 

Gorgeous  Isle,  The.  By  Gertrude 

Atherton    88 

Great    Miss    Driver,    The.     By 

Anthony  Hope 88 

Houses     of    Glass.     By    Helen 
Mackay    397 


Immortal  Moment,  The.  By  May 

Sinclair    8^ 

Inner  Shrine,  The.  (Anonymous)   619 
Life  of  James  McNeill  Whistler, 

The.    By  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Pennell  276 
Love  Letters  of  Thomas  Carlyle 

and  Jane  Welsh,  The.    Edited 

by   Alexander    Carlyle 694 

Magazine  Writing  and  the  New  - 

Literature.     By  Henry   Mills 

Alden    284 

Making  of  Carlyle,  The.    By  R. 

S.   Craig    594 

My  Story.    By  Hall  Caine 398 

Pilgrim's  March,  The.    By  H.  H. 

Bashford    392 

Resemblance,  A.    By  Clare  Bene- 
dict     394 

Richard    Mansfield.      By    Paul 

Wilstach    281 

Romance  of  a  Plain  Man,  The. 

By  Ellen  Glasgow 616 

Sebastian.    By  Frank  Danby...  482 

Septimus.    By  W.  J.  Locke 180 

Spell,  The.     By  William  Dana 

Orcutt    617 

Story  of  Thyrza,  The.    By  Alice 

Brown    39$ 

University  Administration.     By 

Charles  W.  Eliot   380 

When  the  Tide  Turns.  By  Filson 

Young 87 

White  Sister,  The.  By  F.  Marion 

Crawford    6ia 

William     Morris.       By    Alfred 

Noyes   175- 

Wind  in  the  Willows,  The.    By 

Kenneth  Grahame 85 

British  Colonial  System,  The.    By 

Annie    G.    Porritt 605. 

Bruce,  H.  Addington 

Future  of  America,  The 384 




Bi/ton,  Frederick  R. 

Unlearned  Les-son  from  Wagner, 

An 224 

Bynner,  Witter 

Orbit,  The   174 

Chant    Royal.      By   Marion   Cum- 

mings  Stanley    611 

Chesterton,  Gilbert  K. 

Objections  to  Socialism   129 

Clarke,  George  Herbert 

Quo  Abeo 55 

Silent  Sisters  of  the  Poor,  The.  223 
Clayton,  Walter 

Alfred  Noyes  on  William  Morris  175 
Interrupted    Pan    Resumes    His 

Piping,  An    83 

Cleveland,  Reginald  M. 

Hope     551 

Solitude    479 

Colbron,  Grace  Isabel 

Treasure-Trove  of  Memories,  A.   480 
Coming   of   Aphrodite,   The.       By 

Charles  T.  Rogers   268 

Congress  and  the  Executive.     By 

Henry  Litchfield  West   1 

Cooper,  Frederic  Taber 
Alden  and  the  New  Realism,  Mr.  284 

Marion  Crawford    488 

Cost  of  Technique  in  Fiction,  The. 

By  Philip  Tillinghast 613 

Crawford,    Marion.      By    Frederic 

T.  Cooper 488 

Crisis  of  the  Novel  in  France,  The. 

By  Albert  Schinz 78 

Davis,   Lieut.-Commander  Cleland 
Patent    Rights    of    Army    and 

Navy    Officers,  The 312 

Drama,  The  .  .23,  135,  213,  332,  444,  544 
Plays  Criticized 

Bachelor,  The   340 

Barber  of  New  Orleans,  The. .   144 

Battle,  The   141 

Blue  Mouse,  The   31 

Chaperon,  The    143 

Climax,  The    452 

Conflict,  The  451 

Dawn  of  a  To-morrow,  The.  . .   217 

Disengaged 342 

Easiest  Way,  The   215 


Englishman's  Home,  An 447 

Fool  There  Was,  A 448 

Gay  Life,  The  548 

Goddess  of  Reason,  The    222 

Going  Some  453 

Great   John  Ganton,   The 550 

Happy  Marriage,  The 455 

House  Next  Door,  The   454 

Incubus,  The  546 

International  Marriage,  An  . .    143 

Kassa    221 

jVIan  From  Mexico,  The 551 

Mary  Jane's  Pa 31 

Meyer  &  Son 339 

New  Lady  Bantock,  The 221 

Patriot,  The   30 

Return  of  Eve,  The 341 

Richest  Girl,  The    339 

Sham    450 

Stronger  Sex,  The 30 

Third  Degree,  The    219 

This  Man  and  This  Woman. . .   333 

Ticey     32 

Vampire,  The   144 

Votes  for  Women 341 

What  Every  Woman  Knows. .   137 

Winterfeast,  The    26 

Woman  of  Impulse,  A 337 

Woman's  Way,  A   336 

Writing  on  the  Wall,  The. . . .   549 

Dramatic  Literature  and  Theatric 
Journalism.  By  Clayton  Ham- 
ilton      135 

Eastman,  Max 

To  the  Tawny  Thrush 233 

Eaton,  Walter  Prichard 

Forgotten  American  Poet,  A 62 

Eliot  and  His  Book,  President.   By 

Harry  Thurston   Peck    380 

English   Language   in   Porto  Rico, 

The.    By  Roland  P.  Falkner..   206 

Falkner,  Roland  P. 

The  English  Language  in  Porto 
Rico    206 

Fiction   of   Some   Importance.    By 

Philip  Tillinghast   86,  389 

Finance    9,  297 

First  Love.  By  Duncan  C.  Phillips, 

Jr 379 





Flight,  The.    By  Clinton  Scollard.   241 
Foreign  Affairs.    By  Harry  Thurs- 
ton Peck 505 

Forsitan.     By  Brian  Hooker   ....   527 
Forgotten  American  Poet,  A.     By 

Walter  Prichard  Eaton 62 

"Frank  Danby's"  New  Novel.     By 

Philip  Tillinghast   482 

French  Poetry  and  English  Readers. 

By  Brander  Matthews 113 

Future  of  America,  The.     By  H. 

Addington  Bruce  384 

Hagedorn,  Hermann 

Song  from  the  Gardener's  Lodge  101 
Hamilton,  Clayton 
Dramatic  Literature  and  Theatric 

Journalism    135 

Melodramas  and  Farces 23 

Old  Material  and  New  Plays 444 

Paucity  of  Themes  in  the  Ameri- 
can   Theatre,    The 544 

Pleasant  and  Unpleasant  Plays.  213 
Promise    of    New    Playwrights, 

The    332 

Richard    Mansfield:      The    Man 

and  the  Actor 281 

Harris,  Norman  Dwight 

Balkan  Crisis  and  the  Macedo- 
nian Question,  The   102 

highland    Wind,    The.      By    Paul 

Scott  Mowrer 437 

Hoeber,  Arthur 

Penneirs  Book  on  Whistler,  The  276 

Unrest  in  Modern  Art 628 

Hoodlumism    in    Holiday    Observ- 
ance.    By  Mrs.  Isaac  L.  Rice.   317 
Hooker,  Brian 

Forsitan  527 

Oneiros 185 

Only  a  Little  While   331 

Rhythmic  Relation  of  Prose  and 

Verse,  The  424 

Incoming  of  Taft's  Administration, 

The   ^....    199 

Inspiring     Orientalist,     An.       By 

Albert  Schinz   271 

Interrupted  Pan  Resumes  His 
Piping,  An.  By  Walter  Clay- 
ton          83 

Isaacs,  Abram  S. 

American   University    on    Trial, 

The   439 

James  Huneker,  Individualist.    By 

Edward  Clark  Marsh 600 

Keats.    By  Elsa  Barker 288 

Krapp,  George  Philip 

Writing  as  a  Fine  Art 234 

Legal  Monstrosity  of  Our  Patent 
System,   The.      By    H.    Ward 

I^onard    496 

Leonard,  II.  Ward 

Legal  Monstrosity  of  Our  Patent 

System,  The   496 

Leonard,  William  Ellery 

Vagabond,  The 296 

Lincoln's  English.  By  Montgomery 

Schuyler 120 

Lodge,  Sir  Oliver 

Thought  Transference 56 

Logan,  Robert  R. 

Shadows,  The 457 

Looking  Down  from  Lebanon.    By 

Clinton  Scollard 350 

Mackaye,  Percy 

Nativity  of  Lincoln,  The 133 

Mansfield,  Richard :  The  Man  and 
the  Actor.  By  Clayton  Hamil- 
ton    281 

Marsh,  Edward  Clark 

James  Huneker,  Individualist ....   600 

Matthews,  Brander 

French     Poetry     and     English 

Readers    113 

Maurice,  Arthur  Bartlett 

New  Grub  Street,  The 398 

Reminiscent  Call,  The   177 

Maxey,  Edwin 

Pan-American  Railway,  The  . . .  552 
Powers  of  the  Speaker,  The....  344 
Melodramas  and  Farces.    By  Clay- 
ton Hamilton 23 

Mowrer,  Paul  Scott 

Highland  W^ind,  The    437 

Nativity  of  Lincoln,  The.  By  Percy 

Mackaye 133 

New  Grub  Street,  Tlie.   By  Arthur 

Bartlett  Maurice   398 



New  Light  on  Carlyle.    By  William 

Lyon  Phelps  594 

Noon  in  a  Garden.     By  Charlotte 

Elizabeth  Wells   633 

Novels   of  Mrs.    Humphry   Ward, 

The.    By  William  Lyon  Phelps  323 

Noyes,  Alexander  D. 

"After-Election  Boom,"  The 9 

Turn  in  the  Financial  Situation, 
The  297 

Objections  to  Socialism.  By  Gil- 
bert K.   Chesterton 129 

Old  Material  and  New  Plays.    By 

Clayton  Hamilton   444 

Oneiros.     By  Brian  Hooker   185 

Only   a  Little  While.     By  Brian 

Hooker  331 

Orbit,  The.    By  Witter  Bynner  ...   174 

Outgoing  of  President  Roosevelt's 
Administration,  The.  By  Henry 
Litchfield  West   95 

Pan-American    Railway,    The,    by 

Edwin  Maxey 552 

Patent  Laws 

Legal  Monstrosity  of  Our  Patent 
System.  By  H.  Ward- 
Leonard,  The    496 

Patent  Rights  of  Army  and 
Navy  Officers.   By  Lieut.-Com- 

mander  Cleland  Davis 312 

Suggestions  for  Amendments  to 
Our  Patent  Laws.  By  Isaac 
L.  Rice    189 

Paucity  of  Themes  in  the  Ameri- 
can Theatre,  The.  By  Clayton 
Hamilton   544 

Peck,  Harry  Thurston 

Eliot  and  His  Book,  President.  380 
Foreign  Affairs    505 

Pennells'  Book  on  Whistler,  The. 

By  Arthur  Hoeber 276 

Personal  Visit  to  George  Meredith, 

A.     By   Galbraith   Welch....  521 

Phelps,  William  Lyon 

New  Light  on  Carlyle 594 

Novels  of  Mrs.  Humphry  Ward, 
The  323 

Phillips,  Duncan  C,  Jr. 


First  Love 379 

Pleasant    and    Unpleasant    Plays. 

By  Clayton  Hamilton 213 


Back    from    the    Hospital.      By 

Lewis  Worthington  Smith    . .     90 
Chant  Royal.     By  Marion  Cum- 

mings  Stanley 611 

Coming  of  Aphrodite,  The.     By 

Charles  T.  Rogers 268 

First     Love.       By     Duncan     C. 

Phillips,  Jr 379 

Flight,  The.  By  Clinton  Scollard  241 
Forsitan.  By  Brian  .Hooker. .  527 
Highland  Wind,  The.     By  Paul 

Scott  Mowrer   437 

Hope.  By  Reginald  M.  Cleveland  551 

Keats.     By  Eisa  Barker 288 

Looking    Down    from    Lebanon. 

By  Clinton  Scollard   350 

Nativity   of   Lincoln,   The.     By 

Percy  Mackaye 133 

Noon  in  a  Garden.    By  Charlotte 

Elizabeth    Wells    533 

Oneiros.  By  Brian  Hooker  ...  185 
Only  a  Little  W^hile.    By  Brian 

Hooker    331 

Orbit,  The.  By  Witter  Bynner.  174 
Quatrain.  By  Muriel  Rice  ....  22 
Quo  Abeo.     By  George  Herbert 

Clarke    55 

Shadows,    The.      By    Robert   R. 

Logan   457 

Silent  Sisters  of  the  Poor,  The. 

By  George  Herbert  Clarke  ...  223 
Solitude.    By  Reginald  M.  Cleve- 
land     479 

Song  from  the  Gardener's  Lodge. 

By  Hermann  Hagedorn 101 

Tawny  Thrush,  To  the.    By  Max 

Eastman    233 

Vagabond,    The.      By    William 

Ellery  I.eonard    206 

Porritt,  Annie  G. 

The  British  Colonial  System 605 

Powers  of  the  Speaker,  The.     By 

Edwin  Maxey 344 

President  Taft  and  the  South.   By 

Henry  Litchfield  West 289 



Price    of    Popularity,    The.      By 

Philip  Tillinghast 180 

Promise  of  New  Playwrights,  The, 

By  Clayton   Hamilton 332 

Qnatrain.     By  Muriel  Rice 22 

Quo    Abeo.      By    George    Herbert 

Clarke    66 

Reminiscent  Call,  The.    By  Arthur 

Bartlett  Maurice  177 

Rhythmic  Relation   of  Prose  and 

Verse,  The.    By  Brian  Hooker  424 
Rice,  Isaac  L. 

Suggestions  for  Amendments  to 

Our  Patent  Law 189 

Rice,  Mrs.  Isaac  L. 

Hoodlumism  in  Holiday  Observ- 
ance      317 

Rice,  Muriel 

Quatrain    22 

Rogers,  Charles  T. 

Coming  of  Aphrodite,  The 268 

Schinz,  Albert 

Crisis  of  the  Novel   in  France, 

The   78 

Inspiring  Orientalist,  An   271 

Schuyler,  Montgomery 

Lincoln's  English 120 

That  "Universal  Language" 534 

Scollard,   Clinton 

Flight,  The   241 

Looking  Down  from  Lebanon  . .  350 
Shadows,    The.       By     Robert    R. 

Logan   457 

Shall  Incomes  be  Taxed?  By  Henry 

Litchfield  West 513 

Silent  Sisters  of  the  Poor,  The.  By 

George  Herbert  Clarke 223 

Smith,  Lewis  Worth ington 

Back  from  the  Hospital  90 

Snaith,  J.  C. 

AraminU  .33.  146,  242,  352,  458,561 
Solitude.    By  Reginald   M.   Cleve- 
land    479 

Song  from  the  Gardener's  Lodge. 

By  Hermann  Hagedom  101 

Stanley,  Marion  Cummings 

Chant  Royal  611 

Suggestions  for  Amendments  to  Our 

Patent  Laws.    By  Isaac  L.  Rice  189 


Sumner,  William  Graham 

Witchcraft     410 

Tawny  Thrush,  To  the.     By  Max 

Eastman 233 

That    "Universal    Language."    By 

Montgomery  Schuyler 534 

Thought     Transference.      By    Sir 

Oliver  Lodge    56 

Tillinghast,  Philip 

Cost  of  Technique  in  Fiction,  The  615 
Fiction  of  Some  Importance  .  .86, 389 
"Frank  Danby's"  New  Novel   . .  482 

Price  of  Popularity,  The 180 

Treasure-Trove    of    Memories,    A. 

By  Grace  Isabel  Colbron 480 

Turn   in  the  Financial    Situation, 

The.     By  Alexander  D.  Noyes  297 
Under  the  Spell  of  Protectionism. 

By  Louis  Wlndmaller   492 

Unl^med    Lesson    from    Wagner, 

An.     By  Frederick  R.  Burton  224 
Unrest  in  Modem  Art.  By  Arthur 

Hoeber    528 

\ragabond.     The.        By       William 

Ellery  Leonard    296 

Welch,  Galbraith 

Personal  Visit  to  George  Mere- 
dith, A 521 

Wells,  Charlotte  Elizabeth 

Noon  in  a  Garden 533 

West,  Henry  Litchfield 

iEgis   of   Civil   Service  Reform, 

The    401 

Congress  and  the  Executive 1 

Incoming  of  Taft's  Administra- 
tion, The   199 

Outgoing    of    President    Roose- 
velt's Administration,  The  ...     95 
President  Taft  and  the  South  . ,  289 

Shall  Incomes  be  Taxed  ? 513 

What  Is  Pragmatism?     By  P.  J. 

Agnew    70 

Windmaller,  Louis 

Under  the  Spell  of  Protectionism  492 
Witchcraft.     By  William  Graham 

Sumner    410 

Writing  as  a  Fine  Art.   By  George 

Philip  Krapp   234 

The  Brum 

January,  1909 




Thebe  has  been  no  lack  of  interest  in  politics  since  the  din  of  the  elec- 
tion died  away.  The  convening  of  Congress,  the  preliminary  steps  taken 
by  the  Ways  and  Means  Committee  of  the  House  of 
Anomalies  in  Bepresentatives  in  the  matter  of  tariff  revision,  the 
Our  Political  resentment  expressed  in  the  House  because  the  Presi- 
System  ^g^^  uttered  some  views  in  his  annual  message  which 

did  not  please  the  members  of  the  lower  branch  of  Con- 
gress, the  resurrection  of  the  Brownsville  affair  in  a  message  from  the 
President  followed  by  a  spirited  debate  in  the  Senate — ^these  are  but  a 
few  of  the  incidents  which  have  afforded  topics  for  discussion  in  the 
national  capital. 

The  session  last  year  was  as  calm  and  peaceful  as  a  summer  sea.  The 
election  was  pending  and  inaction  was  the  adopted  programme.  Now  the 
elections  are  over  and  there  is  greater  freedom  on  all  sides.  The  mem- 
bers who  have  been  defeated  are  under  no  obligation  to  remain  quiet,  while 
those  who  have  been  returned  have  not  the  fear  of  an  immediate  cam- 
paign before  their  eyes.  This  situation  attracts  attention  to  an  anomaly 
in  our  political  system.  Some  of  these  days,  if  the  American  people  ever 
amend  their  Constitution,  it  will  be  worth  while  to  give  careful  considera- 
tion to  a  proposition  which  will  avoid  participation  by  a  defeated  member 
in  further  Congressional  deliberation.  Under  the  present  system  an  elec- 
tion is  held  in  November  and  the  Eepresentative  who  has  been  repudiated 
by  his  constituents  returns  to  Washington  to  wield  a  free  lance.  Some- 
times defeated  members  do  not  take  the  trouble  to  return  to  the  capital, 
and  even  if  they  do  occupy  their  seats  they  are  naturally  under  the  disad- 
Permisiian  to  republish  articles  is  reserved 



vantage  of  haviag  been  discredited  at  home.  If  there  is  no  extra  session 
— and  these  sessions  are  held  very  infrequently — the  new  member  does 
not  appear  in  Washington  until  thirteen  months  after  he  has  been  chosen. 
By  that  time  the  issues  which  were  paramount  in  the  campaign  may  have 
entirely  disappeared,  and,  at  any  rate,  it  seems  absurd  for  the  newly 
elected  Eepresentative  to  remain  away  from  his  post  of  duty  for  more 
than  a  year.  The  English  system  seems  more  sensible.  In  Great  Britain, 
as  every  one  is  aware,  a  Parliament  is  dissolved  when  the  ministry  is 
overthrown.  The  question  at  issue  is  at  once  submitted  to  the  people, 
and  when  the  result  of  the  election  has  been  made  known,  defeated  mem- 
bers retire  to  private  life  and  their  successors  enter  immediately  upon  the 
discharge  of  their  duties  with  the  vital  issue  uppermost  in  their  minds. 
If  it  were  not  for  the  extra  session  which  Mr.  Taf t  has  decided  to  convene 
early  next  March,  the  members  of  the  House  elected  in  November,  1908, 
would  not  take  the  oath  of  oflSce  until  December,  1909.  It  is  a  long  in- 
terregnum, and  some  plan  ought  to  be  devised  whereby  it  can  be  avoided. 

There  is  another  anomaly  in  our  political  system  which  ought  to  be 
corrected.  No  provision  exists  for  filling  the  office  of  President  between 
the  time  that  formal  declaration  is  made  of  the  result  of  the  count  of  the 
electoral  votes  and  the  fourth  of  March,  should  the  newly  elected  Presi- 
dent die  or  become  disabled  in  the  meantime.  The  Constitution  does  not, 
contrary  to  the  general  belief,  provide  that  the  President  of  the  United 
States  shall  serve  until  his  successor  is  elected  and  qualifies.  The  Presi- 
dents term  of  office  is  specifically  limited  to  four  years.  He  goes  out  of 
office  at  noon  on  the  fourth  of  March.  Up  to  the  present  time,  there  has 
never  been  occasion  to  discuss  the  question  of  his  successor.  If,  through 
some  ill  fortune,  the  problem  should  be  presented,  it  is  difficult  to  tell 
how  it  would  be  solved. 

Many  years  ago  the  late  Senator  Hoar,  who  was  a  great  lawyer  as 
well  as  an  able  statesman,  emphasized  the  existence  of  this  grave  omission 
in  our  form  of  government  and  attempted  to  rectify  it  by  suggesting  a 
Constitutional  amendment,  which  he  proposed  should  be  submitted  to  the 
several  States  for  ratification,  as  follows: 

Article  XVI.  In  all  cases  not  provided  for  by  Article  II,  clause  6,  of  the 
Constitution,  where  there  is  no  person  entitled  to  discharge  the  duties  of  the 
office  of  the  President,  the  same  shall  devolve  upon  the  Vice-President.  The 
Congress  may,  by  law,  provide  for  the  case  where  there  is  no  person  entitled 
to  hold  the  office  of  President  or  Vice-President,  declaring  what  officer  shall  then 
act  as  President,  and  such  officer  shall  act  accordingly  until  the  disability  shall 
be  removed  or  a  President  shall  be  elected. 

This  amendment  was  passed  by  the  Senate,  but  failed  of  enactment 


in  the  House.  Consequently,  if  the  calamity  of  Mr.  Taft's  death  should 
befall  the  country,  there  is  no  Constitutional  solution  of  the  question  as 
to  Mr.  Eoosevelt's  successor.  It  is  barely  possible,  in  such  a  contingency, 
that  the  electors  in  each  State,  although  they  had  once  convened  and 
registered  their  votes  for  President  and  Vice-President,  might  again  as- 
semble, and,  in  a  second  ballot,  vote  for  the  Vice-President  to  fill  the 
office  of  President,  transmitting  this  record  to  the  seat  of  government  of 
the  TTnited  States,  directed  to  the  President  of  the  Senate.  There  is  no 
Constitutional  provision,  however,  for  this  second  convention,  and  the 
proceeding  would  be,  at  best,  a  makeshift.  It  would  be  much  better  for 
Congress  to  realize  that  no  provision  has  yet  been  made  for  a  contingency 
such  as  has  been  suggested  and  remedy  the  defect  as  promptly  as  possible. 
It  is  not  a  political  question,  in  the  partisan  sense  of  the  word,  but  it  deals 
most  vitally  with  the  uninterrupted  continuance  and  stability  of  execu- 
tive authority.  It  seems  strange  that  no  action  has  yet  been  taken,  and 
so  averse  are  the  American  people  to  altering  or  amending  the  Constitu- 
tion that  it  will  probably  necessitate  the  occurrence  of  some  catastrophe 
to  awaken  them  to  a  realization  of  the  situation. 

The  annual  message  of  the  President — a  document,  by  the  way,  of 
more  than  usual  interest  and  ability — contained  one  paragraph  which 

aroused  the  resentment  of  Congress.  After  an  investi- 
Will  History  gation  by  the  Committee  on  Appropriations,  in  which 
Repeat  it  was  shown  that  the  duties  of  oflBcers  of  the  United 

Itself?  States  Secret  Service  had  been  considerably  diverted 

from  the  original  intent  of  the  law.  Congress,  at  its  last 
session,  provided  in  the  bill  making  appropriations  for  sundry  civil  ex- 
penses, that  these  secret  service  men  should  confine  their  work  to  the 
detection  of  counterfeiters.  In  commenting  upon  this  legislation  the 
President  employed  language  which  was  not  only  critical  but  emphatic. 
Without  quoting  the  entire  paragraph,  its  tenor  may  be  gathered  from 
these  three  sentences : 

It  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  this  amendment  has  been  of  benefit  only,  and 
could  be  of  benefit  only,  to  the  criminal  classes. 

The  chief  argument  in  favor  of  the  provision  was  that  the  Congressmen  did 
not  themselves  wish  to  be  investigated  by  secret- service  men. 

But,  if  this  is  not  considered  desirable  [the  repeal  of  the  law]  a  special  ex- 
ception could  be  made  in  the  law  prohibiting  the  use  of  the  secret-service  force  in 
investigating  Members  of  Congress.  It  would  be  far  better  to  do  this  than  to  do 
what  actually  was  done  and  strive  to  prevent  or  at  least  to  hamper  effective  ac- 
tion against  criminals  by  the  executive  branch  of  the  government. 



This  declaration  aroused  considerable  indignation  in  Congress^  espe- 
cially in  the  House,  and  a  resolution  was  introduced  and  passed  authoriz- 
ing the  Speaker  to  appoint  a  committee  of  five  Members  '%  consider 
the  statement  contained  in  the  message  of  the  President  and  report  to  the 
House  what  action,  if  any,  should  be  taken  in  reference  thereto/^  This  com- 
mittee has  requested  the  President  to  furnish  to  the  House  the  basis  of  his 
statement  and  the  Senate  proposes  an  investigation  of  the  secret  service. 
The  President  is  thus  afforded  opportunity  to  make  further  contribution 
upon  the  subject.  The  invitation  of  the  House  is  undoubtedly  most  wel- 
come to  him,  for  he  does  not  go  into  a  struggle  unprepared;  and  he  must 
have  foreseen  that  his  utterance  would  not  be  accepted  without  rebuke. 
The  episode  is  interesting  because  it  recalls  the  famous  incident  of  the 
vote  of  censure  passed  by  the  Senate  of  the  United  States  in  1834,  when 
the  national  bank  question  was  the  great  issue  in  American  affairs.  The 
resolution  was  introduced  by  Henry  Clay  and  declared  ''that  the  Presi- 
dent, in  the  late  executive  proceedings  in  relation  to  the  public  revenue, 
has  assumed  upon  himself  authority  and  power  not  conferred  by  the  Con- 
stitution and  the  laws,  but  in  derogation  of  both.''  This  resolution  of 
censure  was  passed  by  a  vote  of  twenty-six  to  twenty.  The  question  of 
expunging  the  resolution  from  the  records  of  the  Senate  came  to  be  a 
test  of  party  fealty  in  succeeding  elections,  but  it  was  not  until  January, 
1837,  three  years  after  the  passage  of  the  resolution,  that  the  Jackson 
party  secured  a  reversal  of  the  Senate's  action.  The  record  is  still  to  be 
seen  in  the  Senate  files.  Heavy  black  lines  are  drawn  around  the  page 
of  the  journal  which  contains  the  objectionable  resolution,  and  across  the 
latter  are  written  the  words,  ''expunged  by  order  of  the  Senate,  this  six- 
teenth day  of  January,  1837."  It  will  be  interesting  to  see  whether  the 
House  will  pass  a  resolution  of  censure,  and  still  more  interesting  to 
observe  whether,  in  the  future,  the  resolution  will  be  expunged.  Jackson 
felt  very  keenly  the  action  of  the  Senate  and  regarded  the  final  expunging 
as  a  personal  victory.  Mr.  Roosevelt,  if  the  House  takes  formal  action, 
will  certainly  endeavor  to  convince  the  coimtry  that  he  had  ample  ground 
for  his  utterance ;  and  that  he  is  able,  in  a  public  debate,  to  handle  himself 
with  vigorous  strength  has  been  more  than  once  demonstrated  in  the  past. 

If  promises  are  not  made  to  be  broken,  the  next  Congress  will  give 
the  country  genuine  tariff  revision.  Mr.  Taft  has  served  notice  upon  the 
leaders  in  the  House  that  he  will  be  satisfied  with  nothing  less  than  an 
honest  reform  in  the  schedules,  and  Speaker  Cannon  and  Chairman 
Payne,  of  the  Ways  and  Means  Committee,  have  both  indicated  their 
desire  to  accomplish  this  result. 


In  considering  revision,  Congress  will,  of  course,  bo  confronted  by 
local  interests ;  and  these  interests  are  not  confined  to  any  particular  sec- 
tion nor  to  one  political  party.    In  Massachusetts  there 
is  a  demand  for  free  hides  from  the  Argentine  Republic 
Revision  *^^  ^  tariff  upon  boots  and  shoes  and  leather  goods;  in 

Texas  and  Wyoming  and  Iowa  and  Nebraska,  the  cattle 
raiser  insists  upon  a  tariff  on  hides  and  free  entry  for  boots 
and  shoes  and  leather  goods ;  the  wool  grower  in  the  West  wants  a  tariff  on 
his  product,  while  the  manufacturer  in  the  East  would  like  his  raw  mate- 
rial, as  he  calls  it,  to  enter  free;  Alabama  and  Pennsylvania  are  combined 
in  the  effort  to  protect  ore  and  steel ;  the  bidlder  and  the  contractor  would 
like  to  know  why  steel  rails  sell  more  cheaply  in  England  than  they  do  in 
this  country;  the  furniture  manufacturer  in  the  Northwest  wants  free 
lumber  from  Canada,  and  the  owner  of  the  pine  forest  in  the  South  seeks 
to  increase  the  duty  on  the  Canadian  product;  and  the  beet  sugar  manu- 
facturer in  Michigan  and  California  prays  for  protection  against  the 
sugar  cane  of  the  rest  of  the  world.  The  hearings  which  are  now  being 
conducted  by  the  Ways  and  Means  Committee  indicate  the  extent  of  these 
antagonistic  views;  and  it  will  take  wise  statesmanship  to  adjust  all  the 
differences  so  as  to  avoid  injustice. 

Then,  too,  the  gauntlet  of  the  Senate  must  be  run.  For  many  years 
the  Senate  has  had  the  final  and  all-important  part  to  play  in  the  framing 
of  a  tariff  bill.  This  was  especially  the  case  when  the  measure  which 
had  been  prepared  in  the  House,  under  the  leadership  of  the  late  William 
L.  Wilson,  came  into  the  hands  of  the  late  Senator  Gorman  and  was  re- 
turned to  the  House  with  little  remaining  of  the  original  bill  except  the 
enacting  clause.  In  order  to  account  for  the  decisive  part  played  by  the 
Senate  in  the  final  adjustment  of  the  schedules,  it  is  necessary  to  refer  to 
the  conditions  which  exist  in  the  two  Houses  of  Congress.  In  the  lower 
branch  the  bill,  when  it  has  been  reported  by  the  Committee  on  Ways 
and  Means,  will  be  taken  up  for  discussion.  A  few  days  will  be  devoted 
to  general  debate,  and  then,  at  a  certain  day  and  hour  to  be  fixed  by  the 
Committee  on  Bules,  a  vote  will  be  taken  upon  the  measure,  even  though 
there  may  remain  many  pages  of  details  which  have  not  been  considered. 
The  Bepublicans  will  vote  for  it,  the  Democrats  against  it;  and  it  will 
then  go  to  the  Senate.  In  that  body,  where  there  is  no  previous  question 
and  where  the  right  of  debate  is  unlimited,  there  will  be  thorough  dis- 
cussion of  each  separate  item  in  the  bill.  Every  schedule  will  receive 
consideration,  and  no  vote  will  be  taken  until  the  last  word  has  been 
spoken,  no  matter  if  three  months  are  consumed  in  apparently  tedious 
discussion.    With  the  power  in  the  hand  of  any  Senator  thus  to  command 


attention  for  those  matters  which  are  of  vital  importanoe  to  his  oonstitn- 
ento,  the  adjustment  of  schedules  becomes  a  matter  of  extreme  diplomacy. 
Usually  the  Senate^  having  arrived  at  a  oondnsion  concerning  the  char- 
acter of  the  measure^  insists  that  the  Honse  shall  follow  its  suggestions — 
an  insistence  which  more  than  once  has  been  snccessfuL 

No  matter  what  the  House  may  do,  therefore,  it  is  not  worth  while 
to  r^ard  the  new  tariff  as  a  law  enacted  until  after  the  Senate  has  dis- 
posed of  the  measure.  There  are  high  protectionists  in  the  Senate  as 
there  are  in  the  House;  but  it  is  reasonable  to  believe  that  they  will  rec- 
ognize the  demand  for  a  thorough  revision  and  agree  to  a  law  which  will 
present  a  marked  diminution  in  the  schedules,  certainly  as  respects  the 
industries  which  can  no  longer  be  r^arded  as  in  the  infant  class.  The 
great  mass  of  the  people  want  a  tariff  bill  that  shall  lower,  if  possible, 
the  price  paid  by  the  consumer  without  entailing  either  loss  to  the  man 
who  has  money  invested  in  manufactures  or  a  decrease  of  the  wages  paid 
to  the  workingman.  It  is  the  reduction  of  the  inordinate  profits  that 
will  be  viewed  by  the  public  without  r^ret ;  and  there  is  no  doubt  that 
many  industries  which  have  been  pampered  beyond  reason  under  the 
regime  of  a  high  tariff  can  now  afford  to  share  some  of  their  monopolistic 
gains  with  the  consumer.  There  does  not  exist  in  this  country  a  general 
sentiment  for  the  abolition  of  the  protective  principle,  but  if  the  abuse 
of  this  principle  can  be  remedied  in  the  new  law  a  great  feat  in  construc- 
tive legislation  will  have  been  accomplished. 

Once  again  much  is  being  said  regarding  the  necessity  for  changing 
the  rules  of  the  House  of  Representatives.  It  is  not  a  new  story.  Bep- 
resentative  Hepburn,  of  Iowa,  who  this  year  has  gone 
The  Roles  down  to  defeat,  has  been  strenuously  urging  some  re- 

o£  the  form  in  the  matter  of  the  rules  for  many  years.    The 

House.  fact  that  he  has  been  leading  a  hopeless  fight  does  not 

seem  to  have  abated  the  grim  determination  of  Rej)- 
resentative  Gardner,  of  Massachusetts,  to  undertake  the  struggle  again. 
Mr.  Gardner  is  an  aggressive  member,  full  of  fight  and  seeking  with  the 
ardor  of  youth  to  write  for  himself  a  name  upon  the  wall  of  fame.  The 
likelihood  is  that  he  will  gain  nothing  more  than  a  brief  notoriety,  even 
though  he  discusses  the  question  with  more  than  usual  common  sense.  '^If 
we  members  of  the  House,^*  he  says,  "continue  to  adopt  rules  abandoning 
our  power  and  shifting  our  responsibility  upon  the  Speaker's  shoulders  wc 
must  not  go  back  to  our  constituents  and  cry  T)ab/  because  he  exercises 
that  power,  while  we  cheerfidly  leave  him  to  bear  all  responsibility. 

This  is  the  situation  in  a  nutshell.    It  is  entirely  within  the  province 


of  the  members  of  the  House  to  frame  rules  which  shall  deprive  the 
Speaker  of  the  tremendous  power  he  now  possesses.  The  trouble  in  the 
past,  however,  has  been  that  whenever  these  members  were  brought  face 
to  face  with  the  responsibility  for  adopting  a  new  method,  they  have 
meekly  surrendered,  and  the  Speaker  has  continued  undisturbed  in  the 
exercise  of  his  great  authority.  When  the  Bepublican  caucus  meets  at 
the  beginning  of  the  next  Congress  some  brave  soul,  like  Mr.  Gardner, 
will  unquestionably  propose  a  change ;  but  when  the  vote  shall  have  been 
taken  it  will  be  found  that  the  opposition  will  have  mustered  little  more 
than  a  corporal's  guard.  This  does  not  mean,  of  course,  that  there  is 
no  necessity  or  reason  for  a  change.  It  means  that  no  one  will  be  ready 
to  ofifer  a  practical  substitute  for  the  present  system,  which  will,  there- 
fore, be  continued,  while  for  the  rest  of  the  session  disaffected  Representa- 
tives will  declaim  against  a  condition  which  they  refused  to  remedy. 

The  present  House  rules  had  their  birth  in  the  stirring  days  when 
the  late  Speaker  Beed,  finding  the  House  Eepublican  by  the  narrowest 
margin,  undertook  to  obtain  a  working  majority  by  ousting  Democrats 
against  whom  the  merest  semblance  of  a  contest  could  be  made.  During 
the  exciting  struggle  which  accompanied  the  eliminating  process,  it  be- 
came necessary  to  govern  the  House  with  a  rod  of  iron  and  the  Reed 
rules,  so  called,  offered  the  requisite  machinery.  They  gave  to  the 
Speaker  the  most  arbitrary  and  extended  power.  He  appointed  the  com- 
mittees, rewarding  his  friends  and  punishing  his  enemies,  besides  which 
he  was  enabled  so  to  frame  the  personnel  of  each  committee  as  to  make 
it  pigeon-hole  or  advance  legislation  in  accord  with  his  own  views.  He 
named  the  committee  on  rules,  which  decides  what  matters  shall  or  shall 
not  be  considered  by  the  House,  and  thus  he  was  again  supreme  in  the 
matter  of  legislation;  and,  last  of  all,  he  could  recognize  or  ignore 
members  upon  the  floor  exactly  as  he  was  willing  or  not  willing  to  allow 
the  member  to  be  heard.  Under  this  autocratic  system  the  House  has 
been  proceeding  for  some  years.  If  it  is  unfair  or  arbitrary  or  unwise, 
there  is  no  one  to  blame  except  the  members  themselves;  and  yet,  not- 
withstanding all  that  has  been  said,  it  is  very  doubtful  whether  the  in- 
surgents can  conduct  a  successful  revolt  against  its  readoption. 

No  one  who  knows  Mr.  Taf t  will  credit  for  a  moment  the  statements 
attributed  to  him  to  the  effect  that  he  proposed  to  make  Congress  obey 
Congress  ^^^  ^^  ®^®^  ^*  ^®  ^^^  ^  control  the  organization  of  the 

and  House.    Unquestionably  Mr.  Taft  has  communicated  to 

Mr.  Taft  Mr.  Cannon  his  views  upon  the  tariff,  this  being,  how- 

ever, merely  advance  information,  inasmuch  as  the  same  views  will  be 


expressed  in  a  message  to  Congress  at  the  opening  of  the  extraordinary 
session.  He  has  not  undertaken  to  insist  that  Congress  shall  pass  tariff 
legislation  in  accordance  with  his  own  views,  with  the  threat  that  unless 
his  wishes  are  complied  with,  he  will  exercise  the  right  of  veto,  and,  in  the 
meantime,  will  see  that  a  Speaker  is  elected  who  shall  he  suhservient  to 
his  administration. 

Mr.  Taf t  is  an  able  and  experienced  lawyer.  He  knows  the  Constitu- 
tion, and  no  one  is  better  aware  than  he  that  the  province  of  the  Presi- 
dent is  purely  executive,  while  the  legislature  is  a  co-ordinate  branch  of 
the  government.  Above  all,  he  is  not  likely  to  begin  his  administration 
with  a  fight  between  himself  and  Congress.  He  is  too  wise  and  tactful. 
He  remembers  how  the  administration  of  the  late  President  Cleveland 
went  to  pieces  in  the  storm  that  raged  between  Congress  and  the  execu- 
tive. Nothing  could  be  more  fatal  to  his  peace  and  comfort,  to  say  noth- 
ing of  his  hope  of  success,  than  to  be  engaged  in  a  struggle  with  his 
own  party  at  the  Capitol.  It  goes  without  saying,  therefore,  that  he 
will  do  nothing  to  invite  this  conflict.  Congress  will  pursue  the  even 
tenor  of  its  way,  legislating  according  to  the  dictates  of  its  best  judg- 
ment, and  Mr.  Taft  will  afford  encouragement  and  not  throw  obstacles 
in  its  way.  He  will  emphasize  his  views  whenever  he  believes  they  will 
be  of  value  to  his  country  and  party;  but  the  assertion  that  he  will  over- 
throw Mr.  Cannon  and  then  undertake  to  bend  the  House  to  his  supreme 
will  is  as  foreign  to  his  character  and  purpose  as  can  be  imagined. 

It  seems  now  to  be  settled  that  Mr.  Elihu  Root  will  be  the  next  Sena- 
tor from  the  State  of  New  York.    The  Empire  State  could  not  do  a  wiser 

or  a  better  thing.  Mr.  Root  is  to-day  one  of  the  ablest 
Mr.  Root  ™®^  ^^  *^®  United  States.    He  has  made  a  great  Secre- 

in  the  tary  of  State,  developing  in  that  position  an  instinct  for 

Senate  diplomacy,  in  its  broadest  and  best  sense,  such  as  has 

not  been  witnessed  for  generations.  His  latest  achieve- 
ment, the  agreement  with  Japan,  brings  to  a  fitting  'climax  an  official 
career  which  has  merited  national  appreciation.  In  the  Senate  Mr.  Root 
will  be  a  tower  of  strength  to  the  Republican  Party.  He  is  a  forceful  and 
convincing  speaker,  and  he  is  thoroughly  acquainted  with  every  phase  of 
law,  national  and  international.  His  ability,  dignity,  experience  and 
great  knowledge  will  combine  to  give  him  prominence;  and  while  New 
York  may  honor  him,  none  the  less  will  he  honor  the  State  of  New  York. 

Henry  Litchfield  West. 




The  ihree  months  which  have  just  expired  in  the  financial  history 
of  the  American  commimity  comprise  a  most  remarkable  period,  finan- 
cially, industrially,  and,  it  is  not  too  much  to  add,  psychologically.  They 
embrace  what  seemed  to  be  at  one  time  a  complete  and  absolute  reversal 
of  conditions  prevailing  in  American  indusby  and  a  return  from  dul- 
ness  and  stagnation  to  a  pitch  of  trade  activity  such  as  had  possibly 
not  been  witnessed  since  the  boom  of  1906»  This  led  a  very  considerable 
number  of  people  to  the  conclusion  that  the  effects  of  the  panic  of  1907 
were  passed  and  gone  for  good  in  the  industrial  world.  Furthermore, 
they  were  assumed  to  give  the  seal  of  fact  to  what  had  previously  been 
recorded  as  a  mere  figment  of  the  imagination — namely,  the  supposition 
that  a  result  of  the  Presidential  election  of  1908,  such  as  was  favored 
by  the  financial  community,  would  of  itself  instantaneously  turn  financial 
depression  into  actual  'T)Oom  times." 

Since  much  of  the  discussion  of  this  period  will,  therefore,  hinge 
upon  the  results  of  the  election  itself,  a  few  introductory  words  will 
be  in  order  regarding  that  event  from  the  financial  community's  point 
of  view.  It  will  be  recalled  that  in  previous  discussions  of  the  year's 
financial  events,  attention  has  been  attracted  to  the  apparently  confident 
assumption  that  Mr.  Taft  would  be  elected,  and  that  none  of  the  usually 
depressing  infiuences  of  the  Presidential  contests  per  se  nood  be  appre- 
hended. It  will  also  be  remembered  that  in  the  middle  of  September 
what  was  called  an  ^'election  scare"  spread  suddenly  throughout  the 
financial  community.  It  was  never  altogether  clear  whether  the  violent 
collapse  which  then  occurred,  during  a  period  of  two  or  three  days,  was 
due  to  an  actual  change  in  the  community's  expectations  or  to  the  mere 
fact  that  an  over-done  speculation,  based  on  assumptions  regarding  trade 
which  had  turned  out  incorrect,  was  bound  to  crumble  in  any  event  and 
that  the  political  argument  had  been  trumped  up  as  the  most  serviceable 
explanation  of  it.  However  that  may  be,  the  Bryan  scare  of  September 
ended  as  suddenly  as  it  began,  and  from  that  time  on  there  was  apparently 
no  diminution  in  the  financial  community's  belief  that  Mr.  Taft  would 
be  elected.    This  wqs  indicated  by  the  extraordinary  odds  ojQEered  in  the 



betting  on  the  curb.  Two  weeks  before  election,  these  odds  were  reported 
as  three  to  one  against  Mr.  Bryan.  Immediately  before  election,  they 
rose  to  the  extravagant  ratio  of  seven  to  one,  which  was  exactly  the  same 
as  was  offered  on  Mr.  Roosevelt  on  the  eve  of  the  election  of  1904.  More 
than  this — and  the  fact  has  some  bearing  on  what  we  shall  have  further 
to  consider — there  was  a  rather  striking  consensus  of  opinion  in  con- 
servative circles,  both  at  home  and  abroad,  that  whatever  the  result  of 
the  Presidential  election  might  be,  it  could  hardly  affect  materially  the 
business  situation.  It  was  pointed  out,  in  statements  by  American  busi- 
ness men  and  in  criticisms  by  foreign  financial  experts,  that  whatever 
his  individual  opinions,  Mr.  Bryan  could  have  no  power  over  legislation 
with  a  Senate  that  would  certainly  be  hostile  to  him ;  and  furthermore, 
that  the  currency,  which  was  a  vital  factor  in  the  Presidential  contest 
of  1896,  had  no  part  whatever  in  the  electoral  discussions  of  1908.  As 
election  day  drew  near,  the  market  continued  slowly  to  gain  strength, 
and  on  the  very  eve  of  the  vote  of  November  3d  it  was  stated,  in  home 
and  foreign  financial  circles,  that  the  best  financial  judgment  was  for 
a  vigorous  rise  in  prices  on  the  Stock  Exchange  immediately  after 
election,  to  be  followed  by  heavy  realizing  sales  and  a  general 

It  is  not  necessary  to  go  into  particulars  regarding  the  extraordinary 
popular  vote  and  electoral  majority  which  Mr.  Taft  received.  From  a 
financial  point  of  view,  that  vote  itself  was  highly  interesting  because 
of  its  refiection  of  financial  and  industrial  conditions.  From  the  time 
of  the  panic  of  October,  1907,  it  had  been  declared  and  reiterated  that, 
whatever  else  could  be  said  of  election  probabilities,  the  discontented 
vote,  due  to  the  enormous  number  of  laborers  out  of  work,  was  bound  to 
make  itself  felt.  The  force  of  this  argument  was  recognized  all  along 
by  those  who  believed  in  the  probability  of  Mr.  Taft's  success.  They 
replied,  however,  that  from  the  financial  and  the  industrial,  as  well  as 
the  political  point  of  view,  there  were  three  offsetting  considerations. 
They  admitted  that  no  Presidential  election  in  our  history  had  ever 
followed  a  first-class  financial  panic  without  resulting  in  a  transfer  of 
the  Presidency  from  the  party  in  power  to  the  opposition.  They  granted 
fully  the  force  of  the  precedent,  notal)ly  of  the  election  of  1876,  when 
the  depression  following  the  panic  of  1873  turned  the  largest  popular 
plurality  ever  gained  by  any  party  into  an  equally  large  plurality 
for  its  opponent;  and  the  election  of  1892,  when  Mr.  Cleveland 
came  in  with  a  sweeping  popular  majority,  replacing  the  Republican 

On  each  of  these  occasions  the  completed  figures^  of  the  popular  vote 


show  that  not  less  than  half  a  million  voters  had  swung  from  the  admin- 
istration party  to  the  opposition.  But^  granting  all  this,  the  following 
answers  were  made:  First,  the  Republican  Party  had  polled  in  1904  no 
less  a  popular  plurality  than  2,500,000,  whereas  the  popular  plurality 
of  the  administration  party,  in  the  election  before  1873,  was  764,991, 
and  in  the  election  before  1893  only  369,066.  In  other  words,  the 
transfer  of  a  half  a  million  votes,  which  was  fatal  to  the  party's  hold 
on  power  after  the  two  preceding  panics,  would  hardly  be  felt  on  the 
enormous  Republican  plurality  of  1904.  This  turned  out  in  the  event 
to  be  strictly  true;  the  revised  figures  appear  to  show  a  shifting  of  votes, 
due  probably  to  that  cause,  as  large  in  1908  as  in  1896  or  1876,  but  it 
left  Mr.  Taft  with  more  than  1,000,000  plurality  over  Mr.  Bryan. 
Second,  there  was  the  natural  argument  that  even  the  laboring  element 
had  been  led  to  associate  Mr.  Bryan's  canvass  with  the  hard  times  of 
1896,  and  would  therefore  hesitate  to  prefer  him  now  as  a  candidate. 
Third,  and  apparently  most  important  of  all,  the  discontented  voter,  who 
undoubtedly  existed  in  the  industrial  East,  could  hardly  be  said  to  exist 
in  the  agricultural  West.  Throughout  the  farming  States,  it  would  hardly 
be  correct  to  say  that  there  has  been  any  panic  at  all.  The  communities 
have  been  prosperous  to  a  large  degree  and  have  continued  to  prosper 
throughout  the  period  described  as  the  after-panic  reaction.  Probably 
these  three  influences  would  explain  the  vote;  it  is  only  necessary  to 
mention  one  rather  remarkable  fact,  that  it  was  in  such  industrial  and 
manufacturing  States  as  New  York  and  Connecticut  that  Mr.  Taft's 
popular  majority  actually  increased  over  Mr.  Roosevelt's  of  1904,  whereas 
several  of  the  agricultural  States  show  a  substantial  diminution  of  the 
majority  four  years  ago.  This  would  appear  to  indicate  that  the  second 
of  the  above-named  arguments  was  more  important  than  the  third"" 
which,  if  true,  would  throw  a  singular  light  upon  the  general  problem. 

I  have  shown  already  what  was  the  feeling  of  conservative  classes  in 
the  financial  and  industrial  community,  regarding  the  probable  effect 
of  the  election.    All  agreed  that  if  Mr.  Bryan  were  to 
The  Eve  of  ^  elected,  there  would  be  at  least  a  temporary  fall  on 

Election  *^®  Stock  Exchange,  and  at  least  a  temporary  reaction 

in  business.  How  long  such  reaction  could  have  con- 
tinued under  the  circumstances,  was  a  different  question. 
In  the  light  of  subsequent  events,  I  think  it  perfectly  safe  to  say  that, 
notwithstanding  the  dislike  with  which  the  election  of  Bryan  would 
certainly  have  been  received  in  the  financial  and  industrial  communities, 
it  would  not  have  required  many  weeks  for  the  real  needs  of  the  con- 



snmiiig  classes,  with  merchants'  supplies  as  low  as  they  certainly  were 
on  the  eve  of  election,  to  force  quite  as  heavy  a  buying  movement  as 
actually  occurred  on  the  news  of  Mr.  Taf f  s  election. 

Be  that  as  it  may.  It  is  in  any  case  a  matter  of  conjecture,  and  does 
not  concern  the  history  of  the  past  three  months,  except  in  so  far  as 
judgment  on  that  point  may  have  a  bearing  on  the  somewhat  perverted 
view  of  trade  conditions,  which  we  shall  now  see  has  actually  pre- 
vailed. In  order  to  tell  consecutively  the  whole  story  of  the  extraordinary 
reception  given  by  the  various  markets  to  the  news  of  the  election,  it 
will  be  as  well  to  begin  by  describing  the  action  of  the  Stock  Exchange 
itself,  which  then,  as  always,  moved  in  the  same  direction  as  did  general 
trade,  but  with  much  greater  rapidity. 

The  Stock  Exchange  was  not  slow  in  making  arrangements  for  instan- 
taneous discounting  of  the  results  of  the  election.  The  London  Stock  Ex- 
change deals  in  American  securities;  it  opens  for  trading  at  11  a.h. 
London  time;  which,  allowing  for  the  diflference  between  the  two  coun- 
tries, is  6  A.H.  New  York  time.  Since  Americans  could  thus  be  bought 
and  sold  on  a  regular  stock  exchange  at  that  hour,  it  was  obviously  to 
the  advantage  of  American  speculators  to  be  prepared  to  trade  actively 
in  London  before  the  New  York  Stock  Exchange  should  open^  four  hours 
later.  The  manner  of  placing  such  trading  facilities  at  the  disposal  of 
their  customers  had  been  discovered  by  New  York  Stock  Exchange  houses 
as  long  ago  as  1896.  In  that  year  three  or  four  firms  of  brokers,  who 
were  the  pioneers  in  this  curious  operation,  engaged  parlors  at  the  Fifth 
Avenue  Hotel  for  the  whole  of  election  night. 

These  parlors  were  only  partially  equipped  with  telegraph  and  cable 
connections,  but  the  purpose  of  keeping  them  open  was  to  give  a  head- 
quarters for  customers,  who  on  receiving  the  actual  news  regarding  the 
McKinley-Bryan  contest,  would  be  able  to  place  buying  or  selling  orders 
in  their  brokers'  hands,  those  orders  to  be  cabled  as  soon  as  possible  to 
London  and  executed  next  morning  on  the  London  Stock  Exchange.  In 
1900,  when  McKinley  again  ran  against  Bryan,  the  same  plan  of  action 
was  repeated,  but  on  a  very  much  larger  scale.  By  that  time  many  of 
the  Wall  Street  commission  houses  were  maintaining  uptown  offices. 
These  they  kept  open  throughout  election  night,  having  their  own  wires 
running  into  the  offices,  and  such  of  their  competitors  as  did  not  already 
have  facilities  of  this  sort  very  naturally  engaged  rooms  in  the  same 
district  for  a  similar  purpose. 

In  both  cases  the  result  of  the  voting  was  what  speculative  Wall 
Street  had  wished,  and  brokers  who  had  made  this  experiment  were 
favored  with  large  buying  orders  to  be  cabled  to  London.    The  result 


in  1896  was  an  advance  of  two  to  four  points  in  American  securities 
abroad,  before  the  New  York  market  opened^  and  a  corresponding  rise 
of  two  to  eight  points  in  the  first  transactions  on  the  New  York  Stock 
Exchange.  Then  came  a  halt^  and  next  day  an  extremely  heavy  break 
on  realizing  sales.  The  election  boom  of  1896  was  distinctly  over.  In 
1900,  the  case  was  slightly  different^  because  where  industrial  conditions 
in  November,  1896,  were  by  no  means  .encouraging  or  promising,  in  1900 
they  were  the  best  that  had  probably  ever  been  witnessed  in  this  country. 
Nevertheless,  even  in  1900  the  four-point  rise  in  London  before  our 
opening,  and  the  rise  ranging  from  three  to  eleven  points  on  the  first 
transactions  in  New  York,  brought  about  a  quick  reaction  on  which 
Europe  sold,  so  that  the  advance  in  prices  was  at  least  checked  during 
a  period  of  a  week  or  more. 

On  neither  of  these  occasions,  however,  nor  in  1904,  when  there 
was  much  less  excitement  about  the  matter,  was  the  ^^election  nighf ' 
trading  practised  on  the  scale  of  last  November.  In  all,  there  were 
perhaps  fifty  Stock  Exchange  firms  which  kept  open  house  for  their 
customers  during  election  night.  The  news  of  Mr.  Taft's  sweeping 
victory  came  in  very  early;  the  London  end  of  this  curious  operation 
had  so  far  adapted  itself  to  the  American  plan  that  the  brokers  gathered 
on  the  curb  at  7.30  a.m.  London  time,  or  three  hours  and  a  half  before 
the  formal  Stock  Exchange  opening  even  in  London.  On  this  early  curb 
trading  were  executed  buying  orders  for  New  York  account  amounting 
to  fully  200,000  shares — comparing,  according  to  one  estimate,  with 
75,000  shares  thus  bought  on  election  night  of  1904,  100,000  shares  in 
1900,  and  176,000  in  1896. 

By  this  use  of  the  London  curb  market,  American  stocks  had  been 
bid  up  one  to  two  and  a  half  points  before  even  the  London  Stock  Ex- 
change itself  opened;  the  curious  result  being  that 
The  40,000  to  60,000*  shares  bought  earlier  on  the  curb  were 

"Outside  sold  in  London  before  business  opened  in  New  York. 

Public"  When  the  New  York  Stock  Exchange  opened  business 

at  10  A.M.,  it  had,  therefore,  a  rather  mixed  initiative 
from  London.  Prices  advanced,  however,  one  to  two  points  on  the 
opening  transactions;  then,  after  taking  breath,  the  market  was  suddenly 
flooded  with  a  mass  of  outside  buying  orders  from  all  parts  of  the 
country,  which  brought  the  volume  of  the  day's  business  to  the  largest 
figures  of  the  year.  On  Monday,  for  instance,  the  day  before  election, 
half  a  million  shares  changed  hands  on  the  New  York  Stock  Exchange; 
on  Wednesday,  the  day  after  election,  13,660,000  were  sold. 


This  volume  of  business  did  not  slacken;  neither  did  the  inpouring 
of  buying  orders  from  customers  in  New  York  and  from  clients  who 
wired  their  orders  from  all  parts  of  the  country.  Trading  continued 
at  a  volume  not  far  from  1,600,000  shares  a  day;  on  four  days  of  the 
week  after  election,  it  exceeded  that  figure.  On  each  of  those  occasions, 
it  was  the  testimony  of  Wall  Street  commission  houses  that  the  outside 
public,  for  the  first  time  since  ISlOl,  had  absolutely  taken  the  bit  in  its 
teeth  and  was  rimning  away  with  the  market.  Needless  to  say,  the 
advance  in  prices  under  such  circumstances  was  exceptionally  violent. 
During  the  four  days  after  election,  advances  of  three  to  ten  points  were 
too  numerous  to  require  particidar  attention ;  in  tha  next  week,  further 
advances  of  two  to  twelve  points  were  equally  numerous,  and  the  move- 
ment continued,  though  at  a  slackened  pace,  during  the  three  weeks 
after  election. 

So  much,  then,  for  the  attitude  of  the  outside  public.  Its  motive 
in  this  violent  and  quite  unexpected  outburst  of  buying  has  been  a  matter 
of  discussion  ever  since.  It  proved  beyond  question,  to  begin  with,  two 
facts — ^first,  that  the  public  at  large  was  not  in  a  poverty-stricken  con- 
dition, but  had  money  to  spend  or  to  waste.  Second,  it  proved  that  the 
temper  of  the  community  was  not  only  optimistic,  but  disposed  to  specu- 
late on  such  optimism.  Oh  these  two  points  there  can  be  no  possible 

But  so  very  extraordinary  a  movement  as  actually  did  occur  cannot 
be  wholly  explained  in  that  way.  It  is  one  thing  to  prove  that  the  public 
was  able  to  create  such  a  demonstration ;  it  is  another  thing  to  show  why 
that  particular  time  should  have  been  chosen  to  do  it.  For  example,  the 
boom  in  stocks  during  July  evoked  no  such  support  by  the  public.  There 
are  several  possible  answers  to  this  curious  question.  That  which  will 
naturally  occur  to  mind  is  the  theory  that,  since  the  election  of  a  candi- 
date favored  by  the  financial  community  in  1904  and  1900  had  actually 
been  followed  by  a  great  trade  boom— in  the  case  of  1900  by  the  quite 
unparalleled  boom  of  1901 — the  speculative  public,  and,  perhaps,  the 
investing  public  too,  drew  the  deduction  that  the  same  thing  would 
happen  under  what  they  regarded  as  similar  circumstances  now.  Further 
than  this,  it  must  be  observed  that  Mr.  Taft^s  party,  and  Mr.  Taft  him- 
self, had  made  the  sure  return  of  great  prosperity  in  case  of  his  election 
one  of  their  principal  arguments  before  the  people.  Mr.  Taft  himself 
had  gone  so  far — not  very  creditably,  it  appears  to  me — as  to  predict  not 
only  such  prosperity  in  the  event  of  his  own  election,  but  adversity  if 
his  opponent  were  successful,  and  to  intimate,  in  no  very  obscure  or 
indirect  way,  that  not  only  was  the  panic  of  1893  caused  by  the  Demo- 


cratic  experiments  with  the  tariff  in  1894,  but  that  the  fifty-cent  price 
for  wheats  which  made  farming  unprofitable  in.  1896,  was  somehow  a 
result  of  Democratic  administration.  N^obody  need  have  very  strong 
political  leanings  in  either  direction  to  treat  these  stump  arguments  with 
the  contempt  which  they  deserve;  nevertheless,  it  must  not  be  overlooked 
that  a  very  great  many  people  may  have  accepted  such  assurances  at  their 
face  value,  and  may  have  acted  accordingly  in  the  market. 

I  have  said  that  this  sudden  outburst  by  the  speculative  public  was 
wholly  unexpected  by  Wall  Street  itself,  and  by  the  conservative  banking 

community  as  a  whole.  There  is  reason  to  believe  that 
Attitude  of  *^®  ^^^8®  financiers  who  operate  habitually  in  securities 

Large  in  this  country  had  accimiulated  a  considerable  amount 

Capitalists  of  stocks,  which  they  expected  to  sell  to  the  outside 

public  during  the  boom  of  the  first  day  or  two  after 
election,  and  to  buy  back  again  in  the  reaction  which  they  believed 
would  follow.  This  reaction  did  not  come.  Europe  was  a  heavy  seller 
of  securities,  tempted  by  the  extravagant  rise  in  prices  a  fortnight  after 
election,  and  it  was  these  sales  which  brought  about  the  movement  of 
foreign  exchange  against  this  country.  The  so-called  "professional  con- 
tingent' on  the  Stock  Exchange  was  also  a  heavy  seller,  and  apparently 
without  producing  any  effect  upon  the  market.  Finally,  the  large  inside 
operators  themselves  apparently  sold  stocks  according  to  their  plans,  and 
those,  too,  were  absorbed  by  the  excited  public  in  its  after-election  demand. 
To  such  a  pass  did  this  movement  of  outsiders  come  that  it  called  forth 
the  following  statement  by  a  very  eminent  financier,  believed  to  have  been 
Mr.  E.  H.  Harriman,  which  was  circulated  among  his  colleagues  in  high 
finance  about  the  middle  of  November : 

"Business  is  good  and  it  will  be  better,  but  the  state  of  the  Stock  Exchange 
is  unfortunate.  The  moyement  has  gone  beyond  safe  bounds.  The  pace  has  been 
too  fast.  Professional  speculators,  together  with  the  outside  crowd,  have  made 
the  situation  on  'change  dangerous.'  A  halt  should  be  called. 

"A  slump  is  imminent,  and  if  it  occurs,  financial  leaders  will  be  blamed.  This 
would  be  unfair  and  unjust,  for  the  leaders  have  deprecated  the  manipulation  and 
the  growing  craze  for  some  time.  It  is  not  so  much  a  question  of  intrinsic  worth 
as  of  wild  and  furious  speculation  on  the  part  of  people  not  easily  controlled." 

We  have  seen  that  this  excitement  of  the  outside  public  was  based 
largely  on  a  definite  expectation  of  a  great  ^'trade  boom."  Now,  the 
curious  port  of  the  history  of  last  November  is  that  the  trade  boom  also 
seemed  to  have  arrived  according  to  expectation.    That  there  would  be 



Bome  considerable  quickening  of  industrial  activity  after  November  3d 
was  expected  by  all  merchants  and  manufacturers.     The  very  obvious 
reason  for  it  was^  that  a  good  many  orders  had  been  held 
Th   "Trade  ^^^^  iiom  the  manufacturers,  through  doubt  as  to  how 

Boom*'  *^®  election  would  turn  out  and  as  to  how  the  mercan- 

tile and  consuming  public  would  be  affected  in  case 
Mr.  Bryan  were  elected.  It  has  been  sometimes  asked 
why  there  were  no  such  held-over  orders  at  the  time  of  the  1904  election. 
The  answer  is,  that  in  1904  the  actual  demand  from  middlemen  and 
consumers  for  immediate  consumption  was  so  heavy  that  no  merchant 
could  afford  to  let  his  stock  on  hand  run  low.  Had  he  done  so,  he  would 
have  run  the  risk  of  being  left  without  supplies  a  few  weeks  later,  when 
his  competitors  might  be  able  to  fill  demands  atid  get  his  trade  away 
from  him. 

The  case  at  the  end  of  October,  1908,  was  altogether  different.  De- 
mand from  real  consumers. was  extremely  slack;  it  was  safe  to  have  small 
stocks  on  merchants'  shelves  and  in  their  yards;  and,  more  than  this, 
when  hardly  one-half  of  the  countr/s  producing  capacity  was  busy,  there 
was  a  minimum  of  risk  in  waiting  to  have  orders  filled  a  week  or  two 
later  on.  This  explains  suflSciently  the  holding  up  of  orders;  and  the 
fact  that  a  considerable  volume  of  business  was  thus  postponed  from 
October  gave  assurance,  in  any  case,  that  trade  activity  would  be  greatly 
stimulated  after  election.  For  obviously,  it  would  be  the  desire  of  the 
buyers  to  get  their  materials  in  hand  with  reasonable  promptness  after 
the  election  had  been  settled.  Therefore  there  need  not  in  any  case  have 
been  surprise  at  the  substantial  increase  of  activity  in  all  the  country's 
industries  after  November  3d. 

It  remains  to  consider  exactly  what  happened  in  general  trade  to 
give  ground  for  the  extraordinary  outburst  of  enthusiasm  on  the  Stock 
Exchange  which  we  have  already  seen.  The  deferred  orders,  which  had 
been  held  back  pending  the  uncertainty  over  the  election,  came  into  the 
market,  as  was  expected,  and  in  greater  volume  than  had  been  supposed. 
During  the  two  weeks  following  the  election  there  was  unquestionably  a 
very  substantial  increase  in  general  business.  Middlemen  who  had 
allowed  their  stocks  on  hand  to  fall  to  very  low  figures  lost  no  time  in 
transferring  their  orders  to  the  manufacturers,  and  the  placing  of  so 
large  a  number  of  orders  gave  an  aspect  of  unusual  activity  to  almost 
all  trades. 

This,  it  may  be  observed,  was  in  substance  no. different  from  what 
happened  in  February  and  again  in  Jidy.  The  volume  of  business  was, 
however,  much  greater  than  on  those  occasions ;  first,  because  the  revival 


occurred  at  a  time  of  year  when  business  is  normally  more  active  than 
at  any  other  season ;  second,  because  the  wheat  crop,  owing  to  the  lowness 
of  supplies  in  storehouses  and  the  high  price  commanded  on  the  market, 
was  brought  from  farm  to  market  and  sold  at  an  exceptionally  early  date. 
This  last  consideration  is  by  no  means  unimportant.  It  was  estimated, 
in  the  middle  of  November,  that  as  much  wheat  from  the  harvest  of 
1908  had  been  delivered  and  sold  by  the  farmers  as  is  usually  disposed 
of  up  to  December  31st.  The  natural  result  of  such  an  early  marketing 
would  be  to  put  the  agricultural  community  in  ample  funds  and  to  give 
encouragement  for  merchants  throughout  that  section  of  the  country. 

It  may  thus  be  seen  that  the  sudden  increase  of  business  after  Novem- 
ber 3d  was  in  itself  neither  abnormal  nor  surprising.  But  a  little  of 
the  excitement  which  had  seized  upon  the  Stock  Ex- 
yfi^^  change  took  possession  of  the  merchants  and  manu- 

Actually  f acturers  also.    The  manufacturers  in  particular,  seeing 

Happened  this  active  demand,  began  at  once  in  many  directions 

to  mark  up  prices  for  their  commodities.  The  first 
effect  of  this  policy  was  to  increase  buying  orders  from  the  middlemen, 
who  naturally  feared  that  a  still  further  advance  might  presently  be 
made.  But  within  two  weeks  they  discovered  another  side  of  the  ques- 
tion. In  the  first  place,  the  consecutive  marking  up  of  prices  began 
to  bring  goods  to  a  level  where  the  business  judgment  of  the  merchants 
made  the  operation  somewhat  doubtful;  and  at  the  same  time,  their 
own  effort  to  dispose  in  advance  of  the  goods  for  which  they  were  con- 
tracting did  not  meet  with  quite  the  reception  which  they  had  looked 
for.  Even  in  the  agricultural  districts,  they  found  the  retail  buyers  to 
be  cautious  and  not  over-enthusiastic;  in  fact,  it  has  been  a  curious 
phenomenon  of  the  season  that  what  may  be  called  the  trade  enthusiasm 
over  the  election  has  been  experienced  much  less  vigorously  in  the  pros- 
perous agricultural  districts  than  in  the  centre  of  depression  in  the  East. 

That  was  what  actually  happened  in  the  channels  of  trade.  The  story 
which  the  newspapers  of  the  general  public  got  was  something  very 
different.  Day  after  day  the  leading  newspapers  of  the  country  wrote 
up  what  they  called  "prosperity  articles,"  describing  the  utterly  abnormal 
volume  of  business  which  had  suddenly  swept  over  the  entire  country, 
and  intimating  in  no  uncertain  way  that  the  United  States  had  suddenly 
— overnight,  as  it  were — ^retumed  to  the  sweeping  volume  of  trade  and 
production  of  such  years  as  1905  and  1906.  These  accounts  of  the 
industrial  boom  had  a  very  considerable  effect  in  stimulating  the  excited 
feelings  of  Wall  Street.    They  may  have  had  some,  even  in  stirring  up 



excitement  in  mercantile  circles.  The  stories  published,  while  this  process 
was  going  on,  were  of  a  most  extravagant  order.  One  would  hear  that 
all  the  mills  in  a  given  industry  were  so  choked  with  new  orders  that 
they  could  not  fill  them  before  March;  if  the  account  were  to  be  believed, 
industry  had  taken  a  turn  which,  during  the  rest  of  the  winter,  would 
severely  tax  the  available  facilities  of  all  our  manufacturers. 

It  hardly  need  be  said  that  these  accounts  were  for  the  most  part 
written  by  ill-informed  newspaper  reporters  and  correspondents,  who 
were  making  the  most  of  their  story.  When  one  turned  to  the  important 
trade  organs,  he  foimd  no  repetition  of  such  extravagances.  The 
Iron  Age,  habitually  one  of  the  most  cautious  and  conservative  trade 
authorities,  described  the  outburst  of  enthusiasm  as  a  '^general  hurrah  of 
exaggeration  and  misstatement.^'  Other  trade  publications  took  a  similar 
tone — ^many  of  them,  especially  in  the  textile  trade,  urging  the  manu- 
facturers to  be  careful  about  putting  up  their  prices,  at  a  time  when  real 
demand  from  consumers  had  not  yet  recovered  from  the  prostration  of 
panic.  It  stated  that  if  they  were  to  do  this,  they  would  run  the  risk 
of  spoiling  their  own  market,  as  actually  happened,  under  not  at  all 
dissimilar  circumstances,  in  1895,  when  a  premature  belief  that  all  the 
eflEects  of  panic  had  passed  by  led  to  a  high  speculation  throughout  the 
domain  of  American  industry,  with  such  advances  in  prices  as  drove  oflf 
consumers,  heavily  increased  the  import  of  foreign  goods,  occasioned  a 
very  large  import  of  gold,  and  eventually  left  the  merchants  at  the  end 
of  the  season  with  enormous  amounts  of  unsold  goods  on  their  hands. 

With  all  these  warnings,  and  despite  the  much  more  cautious  policy 
which  manufacturers  and  merchants  began  to  put  into  practice,  the  idea 
of  a  complete  revolution  in  trade  conditions  continued 
Testimony  ^  prevail.    One  reason  for  this  was  that  no  trustworthy 

of  statistics  came  to  hand  during  several  weeks  to  show  ex- 

Figures  actly  what  the  change  had  really  been.    It  was  not  imtil 

the  first  week  of  December  that  the  basic  truth  in  the 
matter  came  into  public  view,  in  the  shape  of  the  figures  of  iron  produc- 
tion in  the  United  States  during  November. 

Those  figures  were  naturally  to  be  relied  upon  for  providing  sure  testi- 
mony to  what  had  actually  happened  in  the  way  of  trade  revival — ^not 
alone  because  iron  is  the  industry  which  reficcts  any  general  movement  of 
the  sort,  but  also  because  the  newspaper  stories  of  November  had  chiefiy 
converged  on  the  steel  and  iron  trade.  The  statement  for  November 
showed  that  the  countr/s  iron  production  in  that  month  had  increased 
only  4  per  cent,  over  October;  that  on  December  1st,  the  producing  ca- 


pacity  of  the  iron  foundries  was  only  5  per  cent,  greater  than  on  Novem- 
ber Ist;  that  the  daily  rate  of  iron  production  in  November  was  13  per 
cent,  less  than  even  in  the  panic  month  of  November,  1907,  and  28  per 
ceni  less  than  in  November,  1906.  What  made  this  showing  still  more 
remarkable  was  the  fact  that  the  actual  increase  in  November  output,  as 
compared  with  October,  was  10,700  tons;  whereas  the  similar  increase 
in  October  over  the  preceding  month  had  been  47,500 ;  in  September,  69,- 
000;  in  AugBst,  141,000;  and  in  July,  126,000. 

Following  this  statement  came  a  carefully  collated  estimate,  that  the 
United  States  Steel  Corporation,  at  the  beginning  of  December,  had  only 
68^  to  60  per  cent,  of  its  capacity.  Other  evidences,  by  no  means  con- 
firming the  enthusiastic  views  of  November,  came  promptly  to  hand.  For 
one  thing,  it  was  of  course  to  be  assumed,  if  industry  had  started  up  at 
the  rate  described,  that  employment  of  labor  would  increase  along  with 
it.  But  nothing  of  the  kind  happened.  Since  the  beginning  of  the  year, 
one  of  the  most  extraordinary  indications  of  the  existing  state  of  things 
had  been  the  fact  that  emigration  of  laborers  from  America  had  become 
greater  than  immigration.  A  few  weeks  after  election,  lotwithstanding 
a  rather  large  increase  in  the  number  of  immigrants  brought  in,  it  was 
still  possible  to  say  that  more  laborers  were  leaving  the  United  States  at 
the  Atlantic  ports  than  were  coming  in ;  the  excess  for  a  single  week  at 
the  close  of  November  being  1,200.  It  should  also  be  manifest  that,  if 
80  great  a  trade  revival  were  under  way,  railroad  traflSc  would  expand  with 
it.  Now,  railroad  traffic  is  to  be  measured,  not  alone  by  railway  earnings, 
but  by  the  number  of  cars  in  use.  In  the  middle  of  November,  1907,  the 
American  Bailway  Association  reported  that  the  companies  had  44,800 
less  cars  than  they  needed  for  immediate  traffic  orders  at  the  depth  of  the 
residtant  period  of  trade  reaction ;  it  was  reported,  in  the  middle  of  April, 
that  there  was  an  idle  surplus  of  413,000  cars.  This  large  number  of 
side-tracked  cars  decreased  gradually  after  that  time,  and  the  reduction 
became  rapid  when  the  wheat  crop  began  its  early  movement.  At  the 
end  of  October,  immediately  before  Election  Day,  the  number  of  idle 
cars  reported  was  100,000.  Instead  of  decreasing  further,  however — ^as 
it  should  have  done,  with  the  enormous  trade  supposed  to  be  in  progress — 
this  total  of  idle  cars  actually  increased  to  109,000  on  November  11th,  to 
123,000  on  November  26th,  and  to  174,000  on  December  9th.  The  rail- 
way men  fully  understood  this  part  of  the  situation.  Asked  in  the  mid- 
dle of  November  if  the  railways,  with  their  supposedly  increased  traffic, 
woidd  not  now  come  into  the  market  as  heavy  buyers  of  rails  and  equip- 
ment, Mr.  James  J.  HiU  replied: 

"Conditions  are  improving  undoubtedly,  but  we  [the  Great  Northern  Rail- 



way]  have  fifty  locomotives  stored  away  which  have  never  had  steam  in  them. 
Until  they  are  put  in  use,  I  do  not  think  that  we  will  place  orders  for  new  ones.** 

A  week  later  President  E.  P.  Bipley,  of  the  Atchison,  thus  replied  to 
the  same  question: 

"I  think  it  would  be  a  mistake  to  assume  that  the  improvement  in  business 
has  been  marked.  There  has  been  some  increase  on  our  lines  in  the  general  mer- 
chandise movement,  but  it  is  limited  chiefly  to  supplies  for  farming  communities. 
In  new  enterprises  there  has  been  very  little  improvement. 

"I  would  not  be  surprised  if  it  should  turn  out  that  the  earlier  movement  of 
the  crops  this  year  has  brought  the  railroads  increased  business  at  this  time  for 
which  they  will  have  to  pay  later.  The  roads  are  not  likely,  I  think,  to  order  any 
large  amount  of  new  material  for  some  time  to  come.  Last  year  and  the  year 
before  the  railroads  overbought,  and  many  of  them  will  be  able,  I  think,  to  go 
along  for  twelve  months  without  buying  any  large  amounts  of  material.'' 

It  must  not  be  supposed,  from  the  foregoing  description,  that  the 
state  of  aflfairs  was  actually  unfavorable,  or  that  the  reaction  from  the 
first  fortnight  of  November  must  go  further.  On  the 
'jljg  contrary,  general  testimony  was  to  the  eflfect  that  the 

Real  course  of  events  in  industrial  circles,  during  November, 

Position  as  a  whole,  was  distinctly  favorable,  and  that  the  move- 

ment of  recovery,  though  slow,  was  progressive  and  sure 
— ^not  less  so,  indeed,  from  the  fact  that  the  exaggerated  stories  of 
November  had  turned  out  to  be  untrue.  Various  views  are  taken  by  people 
in  a  position  to  judge  as  to  when  a  turn  into  genuine  trade  activity  would 
come.  At  first  there  was  rather  a  general  prediction  that  such  a  change 
would  follow  the  ending  of  the  old  year ;  later  on,  when  it  was  seen  that 
the  aggressive  demands  of  the  first  fortnight  after  election  had  subsided, 
these  forecasts  pushed  the  date  along  to  the  middle  of  1909.  On  this 
point,  opinion  will  probably  continue  to  differ.  It  is  safest  to  assume  a 
moderate  rate  of  progress,  with  the  actual  date  depending  on  such  con- 
siderations as  next  year's  agricultural  yield  and  the  action  of  the  specula- 
tive markets  between  now  and  then,  but  with  the  general  tendency 
undoubtedly  towards  the  return  of  better  times. 

On  the  Stock  Exchange,  the  course  of  events,  after  it  had  plainly 
appeared  that  the  stories  of  an  after-election  trade  boom  were  unfounded, 
became  such  as  to  puzzle  all  observers.  In  the  first  place,  the  outside  pub- 
lic, having  had  its  two  weeks'  fiing  in  speculation,  abandoned  the  market, 
and  prices  broke  sharply.  It  is  probable  that  the  best  judgment  then  was 
to  the  effect  that  we  should  have  a  further  break,  a  moderate  recovery, 
and  then  a  month  or  two  of  quiet  markets.  But  this  is  exactly  what  did 
not  occur.    No  doubt  the  professional  speculators  made  up  their  mind 


that  they  could  not-  let  go  so  promising  an  opportunity  until  they  had 
fairly  squeezed  the  orange  dry.  At  all  events,  a  most  remarkable  change 
came  over  the  Wall  Street  market  toward  the  end  of  November.  Instead 
of  the  continuous  and  general  buying  of  stocks  for  the  outside  public,  the 
speculative  issues  were  taken  in  hand  by  the  most  daring  sort  of  manip- 
ulators, who  would  put  up  prices  of  one  or  another  stock  two  or  three 
points  in  a  single  day,  without  the  slightest  news  to  justify  it  and  with- 
out the  slightest  reference  to  what  other  stocks  were  doing.  In  fact,  there 
were  days  when  one  group  of  stocks  would  be  rising,  while  another  group 
was  falling  with  rapidity.  In  time,  the  market  was  left  practically  to  the 
auspices  of  two  sets  of  reckless  professional  manipulators,  one  operating 
for  the  rise  and  the  other  for  the  fall.  This  lasted  until  well  on  in 
December,  when  the  speculation  reached  its  inevitable  culmination. 

That  ending  of  the  speculative  movement  came  largely  as  a  result  of 
the  money  market's  action.  We  have  seen,  in  previous  numbers  of  The 
Forum,  how  the  bank  position  at  New  York  grew  to  almost  unexampled 
strength  as  a  consequence  of  the  keeping  up  of  idle  cash  in  the  city  re- 
serves. At  the  close  of  August,  the  surplus  reserve  of  the  New  York  banks 
had  reached  the  astonishing  figure  of  $65,000,000.  From  that  time  on, 
however,  a  progressiva  decrease  had  occurred.  At  the  end  of  October, 
the  surplus  reserve  was  only  $33,600,000,  which,  however,  was  still  larger 
by  far  than  had  been  reported  at  that  date  in  any  year  since  the  other 
after  panic  of  1894.  With  the  November  market,  began,  first  an  extrava- 
gant increase  in  loans  to  the  Stock  Exchange;  next,  a  loss  of  cash,  through 
subscription  to  the  government's  Panama  canal  loan,  through  which  the 
surplus  reserve  began  to  crumble  away  at  an  amazingly  rapid  rate. 

In  the  first  week  of  December,  a  decrease  of  $7,000,000  brought  this 
surplus  down  to  $20,171,000 ;  it  was  manifest  that,  if  the  ensuing  weeks 
should  witness  a  decrease  at  any  such  rate,  the  surplus,  so  far  from  main- 
taining a  high  record,  would  disappear  altogether  before  the  end  of  1908. 
It  was  not  likely  that  this  would  be  allowed  to  happen;  and,  as  a  matter 
of  fact,  it  did  not  happen.  But  the  only  means  of  preventing  it  was  to 
allow  the  rate  for  money  to  advance,  and  thus  to  attract  other  lenders 
into  the  New  York  market.  The  rate  for  call  money  on  the  Stock  Ex- 
change, which  had  been  2  per  cent,  or  thereabouts  at  election  time,  rose 
in  the  middle  of  December  to  4  per  cent.,  and  this  advance  had  a  double 
eflfect.  It  did  attract  into  the  Wall  Street  market  a  mass  of  lending 
institutions,  home  and  foreign,  who  would  not  put  their  money  out- at 
2  per  cent.,  but  were  attracted  by  the  higher  rate,  and  in  the  third  week 
of  December,  the  statement  of  the  New  York  Associated  Banks  showed 
the  amazing  reduction  in  loans  of  $48,000,000  for  the  week — something 



wholly  unexampled  in  the  history  of  New  York  banking.  This  occurred 
through  the  virtual  transfer  of  loans  to  trust  companies  and  out-of-town 
banks,  and  it  averted  a  deficit  in  reserves;  though,  even  with  this  heavy 
transfer  of  liabilities,  the  surplus  reserve  fell  to  $10,000,000,  which  was 
not  far  from  the  average  of  that  date.  But  the  second  eflfect  of  the  4 
per  cent,  money  rate  was  to  remove  the  strongest  argument  which  had 
prevailed  in  the  stock  speculation — ^namely,  that  when  money  coidd  be 
borrowed  at  1  per  cent,  and  invested  in  stocks  paying  4,  5  or  6  per  cent, 
dividends,  there  was  a  sure  chance  of  profit  on  the  difference.  This  chance 
now  had  disappeared,  not  only  by  the  rise  in  money  rates  themselves  to  4 
per  cent.,  but  because  prices  of  stocks  were  already  on  so  high  a  leyel,  that 
the  net  yield  in  dividends  to  the  purchaser  was  very  greatly  reduced,  and 
in  many  cases  was  less  than  the  price  which  he  must  pay  for  money.  The 
inevitable  result  was  a  break  of  great  severity  on  the  Stock  Exchange, 
which  by  Christmas  week  had  cancelled  the  greater  part  of  the  ex- 
traordinary rise  achieved  since  election  day.  It  was  computed,  on  the 
basis  of  those  prices  of  December  21st,  that  since  election  day  Union 
Pacific  stock  had  advanced  lOf  points  and  declined  lOf,  that  United 
States  Steel  common  had  gone  up  lOf  and  down  7^ ;  Beading  up  lOJ  and 
down  7f,  Amalgamated  Copper  up  8  and  down  12f ;  Chicago,  Milwaukee 
and  St.  Paul  up  9J  and  down  9 ;  Northern  Pacific  up  llf  and  down  9^.  It 
remains  of  course  to  see  what  changes  in  prices  hereafter  will  affect  such 
comparisons.  But,  in  the  meantime,  it  is  not  unfair  to  say  that  this 
rise  and  relapse  of  speculative  stocks  measures,  not  unreasonably,  the  rela- 
tive part  which  fiction  and  fact  have  played  in  the  popular  notion  of  the 
'^trade  boom"  since  election. 

Alexander  D.  Noyes. 



I  called  you  often  when  there  was  no  need. 
Only  to  speak  to  you  and  hear  your  name; 
And  it  has  grown  so  very  much  the  same, — 
My  voice  in  calling, — ^you  no  longer  heed. 

Muriel  Bice. 




Tbagedy  and  melodrama  are  alike  in  this, — that  each  exhibits  a  set  of 
characters  struggling  vainly  to  avert  a  predetermined  doom ;  but  in  this 
essential  point  they  differ, — that  whereas  the  characters 
in  melodrama  are  drifted  to  disaster  in  spite  of  them- 
MelodrLm^  selves,  the  characters  in  tragedy  go  down  to  destruction 

because  of  themselves.  In  tragedy  the  characters  de- 
termine and  control  the  plot;  in  melodrama  the  plot 
determines  and  controls  the  characters.  The  writer  of  melodrama  in- 
itially imagines  a  stirring  train  of  incidents,  interesting  and  exciting  in 
themselves,  and  afterward  invents  such  characters  as  will  readily  accept 
the  destiny  that  he  has  foreordained  for  them.  The  writer  of  tragedy, 
on  the  other  hand,  initially  imagines  certain  characters  inherently  pre- 
destined to  destruction  because  of  what  they  are,  and  afterward  invents 
such  incidents  as  will  reasonably  result  from  what  is  wrong  within  them. 

It  must  be  recognized  at  once  that  each  of  these  is  a  legitimate  method 
for  planning  a  serious  play,  and  that  by  following  either  the  one  or  the  other, 
it  is  possible  to  make  a  truthful  representation  of  life.  For  the  ruinous 
events  of  life  itself  divide  themselves  into  two  classes, — ^the  melodramatic 
and  the  tragic, — ^according  as  the  element  of  chance  or  the  element  of  char- 
acter shows  the  upper  hand  in  them.  For  example,  the  assajBsination  of 
William  McKinley  was  melodramatic,  because  nothing  in  that  gracious 
President's  career  pointed  forward  logically  to  its  disastrous  close.  But, 
on  the  other  hand,  the  assassination  of  Stanford  White  was  tragic,  be- 
cause the  strength  of  that  great  artist  was  so  alloyed  with  weakness  that 
his  frailties  pointed  forward  logically  to  some  sort  of  retributive  disaster. 
It  woidd  be  melodramatic  for  a  man  to  slip  by  accident  into  the  Whirl- 
pool Bapids  and  be  drowned ;  but  the  drowning  of  Captain  Webb  in  that 
tossing  torrent  was  tragic,  because  his  ambition  for  pre-eminence  as  a 
swimmer  bore  evermore  within  itself  the  latent  possibility  of  his  failing 
in  an  uttermost  stupendous  effort. 

As  Stevenson  has  said,  in  his  Gossip  on  Romance,  'T?he  pleasure  that 
we  take  in  life  is  of  two  sorts — ^the  active  and  the  passive.  Now  we  are 
conscious  of  a  great  command  over  our  destiny;  anon  we  are  lifted  up  by 




circmnstaiice^  as  by  a  breaking  wave^  and  dashed  we  know  not  how  into 
the  future."  A  good  deal  of  what  happens  to  us  is  brought  upon  us  by 
the  fact  of  what  we  are;  the  rest  is  drifted  to  us,  uninvited,  undeserved, 
upon  the  tides  of  chance.  When  disasters  overwhelm  us,  the  fault  is 
sometimes  in  ourselves,  but  at  other  times  is  merely  in  our  stars.  Be- 
cause so  much  of  life  is  casual  rather  than  causal,  the  theatre  (whose  pur- 
pose is  to  represent  life  truly)  must  always  rely  on  melodrama  as  the 
most  natural  and  eflfective  type  of  art  for  exhibiting  some  of  its  most 
interesting  phases.  There  is  therefore  no  logical  reason  whatsoever  that 
melodrama  shoidd  be  held  in  disrepute,  even  by  the  most  fastidious  of 

But,  on  the  other  hand,  it  is  evident  that  tragedy  is  inherently  a  higher 
lype  of  art.  The  melodramatist  exhibits  merely  what  may  happen;  the 
tragedist  exhibits  what  must  happen.  All  that  we  ask  of  the  author  of 
melodrama  is  a  momentary  plausibility.  Provided  that  his  plot  be  not 
impossible,  no  limits  are  imposed  on  his  invention  of  mere  incident :  even 
his  characters  will  not  give  him  pause,  since  they  themselves  have  been 
fashioned  to  fit  the  action.  But  of  the  author  of  tragedy  we  demand  an 
unquestionable  inevitability:  nothing  may  happen  in  his  play  which  is 
not  a  logical  result  of  the  nature  of  his  characters.  Of  the  melodramatist 
we  require  merely  the  negative  virtue  that  he  shall  not  lie:  of  the 
tragedist  we  require  the  positive  virtue  that  he  shall  reveal  some  phase 
of  the  absolute,  eternal  Truth. 

The  vast  difference  between  merely  saying  something  that  is  true  and 
really  saying  something  that  gives  a  glimpse  of  the  august  and  all-con- 
trolling Truth  may  be  suggested  by  a  verbal  illustration.  Suppose  that 
upon  an  evening  which  at  sunset  has  been  threatened  with  a  storm,  I  ob- 
serve the  sky  at  midnight  to  be  cloudless,  and  say,  '*The  stars  are  shining 
still."  Assuredly  I  shall  be  telling  something  that  is  true;  but  I  shall 
not  be  giving  in  any  way  a  revelation  of  the  absolute.  Consider  now  the 
aspect  of  this  very  same  remark,  as  it  occurs  in  the  fourth  act  of  John 
Webster's  tragedy.  The  Duchess  of  Malfi,  The  Duchess,  overwhelmed 
with  despair,  is  talking  to  Bosola: 

Duchess.  I'll  go  pray; — 

Ko,  m  go  curse: 
Bosola.  O,  fie! 

Duchess.  I  could  curse  the  stars. 

Bosola,    0,  fearful. 
Duchess.    And  those  three  smiling  seasons  of  the  year 

Into  a  Russian  winter :  nay,  the  world 

To  its  first  chaos. 
Bosola.  Look  you,  the  stars  shine  still. 


This  brief  sentence,  which  in  the  former  instance  was  comparatively 
meaningless,  here  suddenly  flashes  on  the  awed  imagination  a  vista  of 
irrevocable  law.  • 

A  similar  difference  exists  between  the  august  Truth  of  tragedy  and 
the  less  revelatory  truthfulness  of  melodrama.  To  understand  and  to 
expound  the  laws  of  life  is  a  loftier  task  than  merely  to  avoid  misrepre- 
senting them.  For  this  reason,  though  melodrama  has  always  abounded, 
true  tragedy  has  always  been  extremely  rare.  Nearly  all  the  tragic  plays 
in  the  history  of  the  theatre  have  descended  at  certain  moments  into  melo- 
drama. Shakespeare's  final  version  of  Hamlet  stands  nearly  on  the  high- 
est level;  but  here  and  there  it  still  exhibits  traces  of  that  pre-existent 
melodrama,  of  the  school  of  Thomas  Kyd  from  which  it  was  derived. 
Sophocles  is  truly  tragic,  because  he  affords  a  revelation  of  the  absolute ; 
but  Euripides  is  for  the  most  part  melodramatic,  because  he  contents 
himself  with  imagining  and  projecting  the  merely  possible.  In  our  own 
age,  Ibsen  is  the  only  author  who,  consistently,  from  play  to  play,  com- 
mands catastrophes  which  are  not  only  plausible  but  unavoidable.  It  is 
not  strange,  however,  that  the  entire  history  of  the  drama  should  disclose 
very  few  masters  of  the  tragic;  for  to  envisage  the  inevitable  is  to  look 
within  the  very  mind  of  God. 

If  we  turn  our  attention  to  the  merry-mooded  drama,  we  shall  discern 
a  similar  distinction  between  comedy  and  farce.    A  comedy  is  a  humor- 
ous play  in  which  the  actors  dominate  the  action;  a 
farce  is  a  humorous  play  in  which  the  action  dominates 
Comedy  and         ^^^^  actors.     Pure  comedy  is  the  rarest  of  all  types  of 
^^^  drama;  because  characters  strong  enough  to  determine 

and  control  a  humorous  plot  almost  always  insist  on 
fighting  out  their  struggle  to  a  serious  issue,  and  thereby  lift  the  action 
above  the  comic  level.  On  the  other  hand,  unless  the  characters  thus 
stiffen  in  their  purposes,  they  usually  allow  the  play  to  lapse  to  farce. 
Pure  nomedies,  however,  have  now  and  then  been  fashioned,  without  ad- 
mixture cither  of  farce  or  of  serious  drama;  and  of  these  Le  Misanthrope 
of  Moli^re  may  be  taken  as  a  standard  example.  The  work  of  the  same 
master  also  affords  many  examples  of  pure  farce,  which  never  rises  into 
comedy, — ^for  instance,  Le  Mededn  Malgre  Lui.  Shakespeare  nearly  al- 
ways associated  the  two  types  within  the  compass  of  a  single  humorous 
play,  using  comedy  for  his  major  plot  and  farce  for  his  subsidiary  inci- 
dents. Farce  is  decidedly  the  most  irresponsible  of  all  the  types  of  drama. 
The  plot  exists  for  its  own  sake,  and  the  dramatist  need  fulfil  only  two 
requirements  in  devising  it : — ^first,  he  must  be  funny,  and  second,  he  must 



persuade  his  audience  to  accept  his  situations  for  the  moment  at  least 
while  they  are  being  enacted.  Beyond  this  latter  requisite,  he  suffers  no 
subservience  to  plausibility.  Since  he  needs  to  be  believed  only  for  the 
moment,  he  is  not  obliged  to  limit  himself  to  possibilities.  But  to  com- 
pose a  true  comedy  is  a  very  serious  task;  for  in  comedy  the  action  must 
be  not  only  possible  and  plausible,  but  must  be  a  necessary  result  of  the 
nature  of  the  characters.  This  is  the  reason  why  The  School  for  Scandal 
is  a  greater  accomplishment  than  The  Rivals,  though  the  latter  play  is 
fully  as  funny  as  the  fonner.  The  one  is  comedy,  and  the  other  merely 

The  most  interesting  event  of  the  last  month  in  the  theatres  of  New 
York  was  the  immediate  and  absolute  failure  of  The  Winterfeast,  by 
Mr.  Charles  Eann  Kennedy,  the  gifted  author  of  The 
Servant  in  the  House.  A  failure  by  a  dramatist  who 
"^.***  .  „  bas  proved  himself  to  be  important  is  worthy  of  studious 
and  carefid  criticism.  Many  reasons  have  already  been 
adduced  by  the  newspaper  reviewers  to  explain  why  this 
earnest  and  ambitious  drama  failed  to  please  the  public.  The  action 
passed  in  Iceland  in  the  year  1020  a.d.  ;  and  it  has  been  suggested  that  the 
period  and  the  place  were  too  remote  to  awaken  the  lethargic  imagina- 
tion of  the  many.  The  story  was  intricate  and  difficult  to  follow,  and  the 
piece  was  very  much  too  long.  It  was  conceived  and  projected  with  un- 
wavering unity  of  mood;  and  since  the  mood  was  sombre  and  harrowing, 
the  utter  lack  of  relief  palled  upon  the  audience.  Although  only  seven 
actors  were  needed  to  present  the  play,  no  less  than  twelve  people  suffered 
violent  deaths  before  the  catastrophe  was  completed.  Besides  a  rather 
inefficient  servant,  only  two  characters  were  left  alive  at  the  close;  and 
these  two  were  the  only  people  in  the  story  who  had  done  anything  posi- 
tive to  deserve  disaster.  The  action  was  frequently  delayed  by  long  and 
literary  speeches,  some  of  which  were  soliloquies  delivered  to  the  circum- 
jacent air.  But  all  of  these  accumulated  dicta  do  not  explain  the  failure 
of  the  play,  because  such  incidental  handicaps  as  these  were  discounted 
by  the  unusual  merits  of  the  performance.  The  piece  was  handsomely 
set,  and  (except  for  an  occasional  awkwardness  of  stage-direction)  well 
produced;  and  the  acting  of  the  three  leading  performers  was  so  unusu- 
ally able  and  effective  as  to  make  up  for  a  multitude  of  such  minor  de- 
merits in  the  play  as  those  which  we  have  just  enumerated. 

No;  we  must  look  more  deeply  than  this  to  discern  what  was  irremedi- 
ably wrong  with  The  Winterfeast.  I  think  that  the  true  explanation  of 
the  matter  lies  in  an  evident  inconsistency  between  the  author^s  intention 


and  his  actual  accomplishment.  It  is  quite  evident  from  the  tenor  and 
the  tone  of  the  drama  that  he  intended  to  make  a  tragedy;  and  it  is  just 
as  evident,  upon  studious  consideration,  that  he  succeeded  only  in  making 
a  melodrama.  To  understand  this  centrally  important  point,  we  must 
examine  the  subject  and  investigate  the  plotting  of  the  play. 

Mr.  Kenned/s  purpose  was  to  exhibit  the  ruinous  effects  of  a  lie  told 
by  one  man  to  the  detriment  of  another  with  the  intention  of  benefiting 
some  one  else — a  single  lie,  which,  like  a  bit  of  snow  loosened  on  a  moun- 
tain summit,  might  gather  weight  and  impetus  as  it  descended,  until  it 
became  an  avalanche  sweeping  everything  before  it  to  destruction.  This 
is  a  very  fascinating  subject;  but  it  is  an  extremely  difficidt  one  to  handle 
tragically,  instead  of  melodramatically.  In  fact,  a  thorough  contempla- 
tion of  the  theme  will  show  that  there  is  only  one  way  in  which  it  may 
be  given  a  truly  tragic  treatment.  That  one  way  is  by  exhibiting  a  dis- 
integration of  character  within  the  man  who  told  the  lie,  produced  by  his 
own  haunting  consciousness  of  wrong  committed — ^a  disintegration  so 
complete  as  to  drag  also  to  destruction  the  innocent  people  whose  des- 
tinies are  intertwined  with  his  by  filaments  of  falsehood  spun  out  of  his 
original  mistaken  purpose.  With  such  a  treatment  of  the  theme,  the 
action  might  be  made  at  every  point  inevitable,  and  ruin  might  be 
wrought  directly  from  defect  of  character,  without  the  intervention  of 
accidental  circumstance.  Here,  obviously,  was  an  opportunity  to  put  in 
practice  that  maxim  of  Mr.  Meredith's  in  Modem  Love: 

In  tragic  life,  God  wot, 
Ko  villain  need  be !  Passions  spin  the  plot : 
We  are  betrayed  by  what  is  false  within. 

But  instead  of  choosing  this  truly  tragic  rendering  of  the  subject,  and 
showing  his  characters  betrayed  by  what  was  false  within  them,  Mr.  Ken- 
nedy adopted  the  melodramatic  method  of  inventing  a  villain  to  mo- 
tivate the  plot  from  the  outside.  The  author  betrayed  his  characters  by 
the  blind  accidents  of  chance;  he  showed  them  at  all  points  dominated 
by  his  plot;  and  thereby  he  lost  the  lofty  Truth  of  tragedy  inherent  in 
his  theme. 

Since  The  Winterfeast  is  published  and  is  thereby  made  available  for 
study,^  a  very  brief  summary  of  the  story  will  be  suiBScient  for  the  pur- 
pose of  the  present  criticism.  Thorkel,  a  viking,  has  a  son,  Valbrand, 
who  is  a  skald,  and  a  foster-son,  B jom,  who  is  a  warrior.  Both  the  young 
men  love  Herdisa.    She  prefers  Bjom,  but  Thorkel  wishes  her  to  marry 

^The  Winterfeast.  By  Charles  Rann  Kennedy.  New  York  and  Ijondon: 
Harper  and  Brothers. 


Valbrand.  Therefore  he  fai'es  forth  overseas  to  Vineland,  taking  Bjom 
with  him  and  leaving  Valbrand  at  home.  Before  the  expedition  starts, 
Herdisa,  unasked,  clearly  indicates  her  love  for  Bjom.  Bjom  is  by  acci- 
dent left  behind  in  Vineland,  but  sends  back  a  message  of  love  to  Herdisa. 
Thorkel  lies  about  this  message,  sayrug  that  Bjom  sent  Herdisa  as  a  taunt 
the  single  word,  "Unasked.^'  Herdisa,  stung  by  this,  immediately  mar- 
ries Valbrand.  By  him  she  has  a  daughter,  Swanhild;  but  she  continues 
to  love  Bjom,  whom  she  supposes  to  be  dead.  Twenty  years  later  Bjorn 
returns  to  Iceland  with  a  son,  Olaf,  who  has  been  bom  to  him  in  Vine- 
land.  His  return  and  Thorkd's  old  deception  are  discovered  by  Priest 
Ufeig,  who  for  many  years  has  been  at  feud  with  Thorkel,  for  some 
reason  which  the  author  never  reveals,  Ufeig,  possessed  of  his  enemy's 
guilty  secret,  proceeds  to  undermine  him  by  the  usual  methods  of  black- 
mail. He  secures  a  foraial  remission  of  the  open  enmity  between  them, 
and  then  tries  to  force  a  marriage  between  Swanhild  and  his  son,  Helgi. 
The  aged  Thorkel  prevents  this  by  killing  the  young  Helgi;  and,  in- 
satiate of  carnage,  slays  also  a  full  half  dozen  other  sons  of  Ufeig. 

Bjom,  after  his  return  home,  is  left  alone  with  Herdisa.  Naturally 
he  wonders  why  she  ever  married  Valbrand.  She  tells  him  that  she  did 
so  because  of  that  bitter  word  of  his,  ^TJnasked.'^  Thus  confronted  with 
the  old  lie,  Bjom,  for  some  inexplicable  reason,  does  not  supplant  it  with 
the  simple  truth.  Instead,  he  picks  a  querulous  quarrel  with  Valbrand. 
The  two  men  go  forth  to  fight;  and  one  of  them  slays  the  other.  A  thrall, 
named  Odd,  is  present  at  their  combat;  but  though  the  survivor  speaks 
several  sentences  to  him.  Odd  remains  inexplicably  ignorant  as  to  which 
killed  which.  By  chance  he  brings  back  a  sword  which  indicates  that 
Valbrand  has  been  slain  by  Bjom. 

Olaf  happens  in,  and  falls  in  love  with  Swanhild  at  first  sight.  Her- 
disa makes  him  swear  to  kill  the  supposed  slayer  of  Swanhild's  father. 
Olaf,  deeming  from  the  accidental  sword,  that  he  has  sworn  to  kill  his 
own  father,  Bjom,  kills  himself  instead.  His  suicide  leads  to  Swanhild's. 
Valbrand  returns,  a  slayer  but  not  slain.  Discovering  his  daughter's  fate, 
he  madly  mshes  forth  to  kill  himself.  Herdisa  dies  of  shock  at  this 
accumulation  of  arbitrary  deaths.  The  villain,  Ufeig,  remains  unscathed, 
except  for  the  loss  of  his  small  army  of  sons  at  one  fell  swoop.  The  only 
other  person  (barring  Odd)  who  remains  unpunished,  is  the  guilty  source 
of  all  the  trouble,  Thorkel.  Never  during  the  course  of  the  action  has 
he  exhibited  any  truly  tragic  compunctions  of  conscience.  Only  at  the 
very  end  of  the  play  does  he  feel  ready  to  confess  his  ancient  fault;  and 
by  that  time,  unfortunately,  nobody  is  left  alive  to  listen  to  his  confession. 

This  summary,  which  I  think  is  not  unfair,  must  make  it  clearly 


evident  that  the  characters  of  The  Winterfeast  are  controlled  at  all  points 
by  the  fortuitous  falling  out  of  circumstance.  Every  detail  of  the  catas- 
trophe is  the  result  of  accident.  Olaf  kills  himself,  not  because  of  any 
inherent  necessity,  but.  merely  because  a  stupid  thrall  has  brought  back 
misleading  tidings  of  a  mortal  combat.  Since  Olaf's  death  conditions 
Swanhild's,  and  her  death  conditions  Yalbrand^s,  all  three  deaths  are 
due  to  chance.  Also  it  must  have  been  by  some  blind  accident  that  Val- 
brand  slew  Bjom,  since  the  latter  was  admittedly  the  better  warrior.  The 
author  offers  no  explanation  of  ThorkePs  miraculous  prowess  in  killing 
in  a  single  combat  seven  men,  all  younger  and  stronger  than  himseli 
Herdisa,  apparently,  dies  merely  by  contagion,  because  death  is  in  the 
air.  Surely,  surely,  the  catastrophe  of  this  play  oversteps  even  the  im- 
modesty of  melodrama;  and  of  the  inevitable  doom  of  tragedy  it  offers 
not  a  trace. 

At  one  all-important  point  in  the  second  act,  the  play  breaks  entirely 
to  pieces.  When  Herdisa  hurls  at  Bjorn  that  rankling  word,  'TJnasked," 
we  expect  the  simple-natured  warrior  to  reply,  'TE  never  said  that  word; 
old  Thorkel  lied;  the  message  that  I  sent  to  you  was  this."  Assuredly 
some  statement  of  this  sort  must  have  been  made  by  Bjorn  at  that  excited 
moment.  But  Mr.  Kennedy  tells  us  that,  instead,  the  warrior  remained 
silent  a  Jong  time,  and  then  remarked  philosophically: — "So:  that  one 
word  hath  broken  both  our  lives."  If  Bjorn  had  not  thus  imtruthfully 
evaded  telling  the  truth  at  that  moment,  the  entire  subsequent  fabric  of 
Mr.  Kennedy^s  melodrama  would  have  been  rendered  unimaginable.  The 
avalanche  is  therefore  launched  by  an  evasion  which  belies  an  inherent 
necessity  of  character. 

In  tiie  last  act,  Valbrand  sits  silent  within  an  ingle-seat,  in  full  view 
of  the  audience,  while  Herdisa  and  Swanhild  exchange  eighteen  speeches, 
arguing  whether  or  not  he  has  been  slain  and  cast  into  a  fiord.  During 
this  protracted  argument,  it  does  not  occur  to  Valbrand  to  interpose  a 
word  to  stop  the  superfluity  of  drear  contention.  Previous  to  this,  Her- 
disa has  wasted  a  great  deal  of  eloquence  in  a  threnody  over  Valbrand, 
whom  the  audience  already  suspect  to  be  alive.  Throughout  the  writing 
of  the  dialogue,  Mr.  Kennedy  evinces  a  mania  for  making  his  characters, 
say  very  simple  things  elaborately,  merely  in  order  that  their  meaning 
may  be  misunderstood  by  those  to  whom  they  are  talking.  Melodrama 
may  be  made  out  of  misunderstandings  and  evasions;  but  surely  tragedy 
should  be  built  out  of  simple  and  terrible  revelations. 

These  details,  doubtless,  are  enough  to  indicate  that  The  Winterfeast 
is  not  a  tragedy,  and  that  even  when  considered  as  a  melodrama  it  does 
not    meet  successfully  the  test  of  plausibility.    The  financial  failure  of 



the  play  was  due  to  its  defects  as  a  work  of  art.  The  great  uncritical  pub- 
lic was  in  this  case  right,  as  it  almost  always  is.  Yet  the  play  has  con- 
siderable literary  merit,  and  is  well  wori;h  reading.  It  is  written  in  a 
sori;  of  William  Morris  prose,  eloquent  with  connotative  archaism.  It  re- 
veals a  great  deal  of  poetic  feeling, — ^a  strong  sweep  and  a  frequent 
grandeur  of  emotion.  And  for  the  reader  it  is  rendered  furthermore 
worth  while  by  the  potency  of  the  author's  personality, — ^his  earnestness, 
his  vigor,  his  enthusiasm,  his  sinceriiy, — qualities  too  great  to  be  dimmed 
even  by  the  failure  of  a  lofty  purpose. 

The  Patriot,  by  Mr.  J.  Hartley  Manners  and  Mr.  William  Collier,  is 
frankly  a  farce;  and  the  plot  which  dominates  its  mirth-provoking  cari- 
catures is  comfortably  conventional.    The  story  may  be 
summarized  in  short-hand,  as  follows: —  Act  7.    The 
"The  Patriot"       hero  is  in  hard  luck.    A  sudden  legacy  is  left  him  by 
an  unsuspected  uncle.    Curtain.    Act  II.    A  condition 
of  the  legacy  is  that  the  hero  shall  marry  a  certain  girl 
within  a  certain  time.    The  girl  and  he  are  incompatible.    The  hero,  to 
escape  the  girl,  discards  the  legacy.    Curtain.    Act  III,    The  hero  re- 
turns to  his  former  life,  and  marries  a  girl  who  has  been  a  factor  in  it. 
Providence  endows  him  with  good  luck.    Curtain. 

Obviously  this  short-hand  summary  would  fit  fully  a  dozen  other 
farces  of  recent  seasons  just  as  well  as  it  fits  The  Patriot  But  that  is 
nothing  against  the  present  piece;  for  in  The  Patriot  the  familiar  formula 
is  used  as  a  basis  for  dramatizing  the  amusing  personality  of  Mr.  Collier, 
and  individual  personality  is  always  new.  The  farce  is  vivified  with 
pleasant  playfulness  and  clever  foolery,  and  is  genuinely  entertaining  in 

In  The  Stronger  Sex,  by  Mr.  John  Valentine,  an  impoverished  yoimg 
English  nobleman  marries  a  spirited  American  heiress.     Immediately 
after  the  wedding  ceremony,  the  heroine  overhears  a 
conversation  between  her  husband  and  a  former  love  of 
c      onger      ^^^  which  reveals  that  he  has  married  her  merely  for 
her  money.    She  resolves  to  educate  him  up  to  worthi- 
ness.   Befusing  conjugal  relations  with  him,  she  pays 
him  a  fixed  allowance,  and  oversees  his  expenditures  in  detail.    There  is 
a  strong  struggle  between  them  for  dominance  over  their  household,  and 
the  woman  wins.    As  a  result  of  the  struggle  the  man  grows  worthy,  and 
the  two  develop  a  genuine  affection  for  each  other,  which  results  in  a 
real  marriage  of  love  between  them. 


The  second  act  of  this  play,  which  exhibits  the  brunt  of  the  struggle 
between  the  husband  and  the  wife,  is  genuinely  interesting.  The  act 
is  plotted  with  considerable  theatric  skill,  and  the  material  is  so  adapted 
as  to  make  both  a  comic  and  a  serious  appeal.  The  third  act  is  pleasant 
enough,  though  the  author  falsely  emphasizes  much  material  that  is  of 
minor  importance.  But  the  whole  play  is  very  nearly  spoiled  by  the 
first  ac^  which  aflfords  only  a  dull  and  tedious  exposition  of  the  story. 
The  eavesdropping  scene  is  arbitrarily  theatrical.  People  who  become 
really  characters  later  in  the  play  are  merely  caricatures  in  the  initial 
act.  Evidently  Mr.  Valentine  did  not  secure  control  of  his  material  until 
his  material  secured  control  of  him. 

Mr.  Clyde  Fitch  has  made  a  very  ludicrous  and  entertaining  farce  in 
his  adaptation  from  the  German  of  Alexander  Engel  and  Julius  Horst, 
entitled  The  Blue  Mouse.    A  young  man,  who  is  secre- 
tary to  a  railroad  president,  desires  to  be  advanced  to  a 
«    *  „"*  more  lucrative  position.     He  knows  that  the  president 

may  be  easily  cajoled  by  pretty  women  of  a  safely  re- 
spectable sort.  Therefore  he  hires  a  clever  chorus  lady 
to  pass  herself  off  as  his  wife,  and  introduces  her,  in  this  capacity,  to  the 
president.  Since  both  the  president  and  the  secretary  are  married,  there 
is  plenty  of  opportunity  for  complex  misunderstandings  between  the 
hired  wife  and  the  actual  ones.  The  plot  affords  an  amusing  succession 
of  coimter-crosses;  the  machinery  is  very  cleverly  managed;  and  the 
merry  spirit  of  the  entertainment  is  enhanced  by  slight  suggestions  now 
and  then  of  harmless  naughtiness. 

Mary  Jane's  Pa,  by  Edith  Ellis,  rises  above  the  level  of  mere  farce, 
and  deserves  consideration  as  a  comedy.    It  sets  forth  an  interesting 

struggle  between  the  humorous  charm  of  vagabondia, 
<«]yli^  made  incarnate  in  a  man,  and  the  striving  steadfast 

Jane's  practicality  of  a  woman.    Portia  Perkins  is  a  successful 

Pa"  printer  and  editor  in  a  tiny  Indiana  town.    She  has  two 

young  daughters  and  is  presumably  a  widow,  but  nobody 
knows  anything  about  her  husband.  The  fact  is  that  he  has  wandered 
away  and  disappeared  many  years  before.  Unexpectedly  he  reappears, 
and  makes  himself  known  to  his  wife.  He  has  lived  in  many  lands,  and 
looked  with  humor  on  the  habitable  world,  and  returns  with  the  ripe 
mind  of  the  contemplative  philosopher;  but  he  is  still  a  skulker,  despite 
his  literary  graces,  and  his  practical  wife  will  take  him  back  into  her 
house  only  on  the  terms  of  a  hired  man.     He  amusedly  consents,  and 



becomes  housekeeper  and  cook.  Scandal  is  awakened  in  the  town  by  the 
presence  in  Portia  Perkins's  house  of  a  man  supposedly  a  stranger;  but 
after  many  amusing  struggles  the  two  acknowledge  to  the  world  that 
they  are  man  and  wife.  The  husband,  presumably,  is  cured  of  vaga- 
bondage, and  there  is  a  prospect  of  happy  home  life  ever  after. 

This  unusually  interesting  story  is  very  pleasantly  rendered  by  Miss 
Ellis.  The  play  is  a  little  unsteady  in  structure,  and  seems  to  have  been 
too  much  rewritten  and  revised.  The  minor  parts  are  caricatured,  and 
occasionally  mar  the  reality  of  the  general  impression;  but  the  hero  is  a 
genuine  character.  The  piece  conveys  at  all  points  the  charm  of  a  sincere 
and  worthy  purpose.  The  dialogue  is  lacking  in  literary  distinction;  but 
the  writing  is  simple  and  sincere,  and  therefore  adequate.  Miss  Ellis  is 
to  be  congratulated  on  having  created  a  real  and  interesting  character, 
and  having  told  a  human  story  with  honesty  and  earnestness. 

Mr.  William  Gillette's  latest  play,  which,  with  the  title  of  That  Little 
Affair  at  the  Boyds',  was  first  produced  last  spring  in  Washington,  and 
has  since  been  seen  in  Chicago,  was  recently  shown,  witli 
the  new  title  of  Ticey,  at  a  special  matinte  performance 
"Ticey"  in  New  York.    It  proved  to  be  a  commingling  of  farce 

and  comedy  dnd  melodrama,  set  forth  with  Mr.  Gillette's 
accustomed  theatric  skill.  The  theme  of  the  piece  is  the 
same  as  that  of  She  Stoops  to  Conquer;  and  this  latest  rendering  of  the 
old,  familiar  material  indicates  anew  its  value  for  the  purposes  of  enter- 
tainment. The  hero  is  a  young  man  who  writes  plays  which  are  too 
elaborately  literary  for  production,  and  who  will  not  accept  advice  from 
anybody  else.  The  heroine  is  a  popular  actress,  whom  he  loves  in  secret, 
and  who  secretly  loves  hiuL  The  actress  makes-up  as  a  common  drudge, 
and  secures  employment  as  a  serving-nwiid  in  the  playwright's  household. 
Without  allowing  him  to  grow  aware  of  what  she  is  effecting,  she  teaches 
him  the  necessity  of  simple  reality  in  his  dialogue  and  in  the  conduct 
of  his  scenes.  As  a  result,  the  playwright  composes  a  play  which  is  ac- 
cepted and  produced,  with  the  actress  performing  the  leading  part.  Not 
knowing  that  he  owes  his  success  to  her,  he  wooes  and  wins  her;  and  as 
the  curtain  falls,  she  remarks  that  some  day  she  may  tell  him  something. 
This  pleasing  story  is  rendered  with  considerable  humor  and  a  touch 
of  sympathetic  sentiment.  The  first  act  is  too  processional  in  its  sequent 
exposition  of  material ;  but  in  the  second  and  third  acts,  the  commingled 
sentiment  and  fun  stiffen  into  pleasantly  exciting  melodrama.  The  last 
act,  on  the  other  hand,  declines  in  interest  because  it  is  unduly  intricate. 

Clayton  Hamilton. 


BY  J.   0.   SNAITH 



Andover  entered  bearing  a  small  parcel  with  a  certain  ostentation. 

"Caroline,"  said  he,  "as  I  was  coming  out  of  Truefitt's  I  remembered 
that  for  the  first  time  for  forty  years  I  had  forgotten  to  give  you  a 
present  on  your  birthday.  Last  year  I  gave  you  a  Bible.  This  year  I 
have  bought  you  this." 

He  cut  the  string  of  the  parcel  and  handed  the  present  to  Caroline 

With  a  grim  but  not  ungraceful  inclination  of  the  second  best 
turban  the  recipient  began  to  relieve  the  present  of  its  numerous  trap- 
pings.   A  small  but  expensive  hand  glass  was  presently  revealed. 

"Thank  you,  Andover,"  said  the  old  lady.  "A  very  charming 

"I  hope  it  pleases  you,  my  dear  Caroline,"  said  Andover  with  quite 
the  bel  air.  "You  have  so  long  defied  time  that  I  felt  it  to  be  an  interest- 
ing memento  of  his  impotence." 

"Thank  you,  Andover,"  said  the  redoubtable  Caroline.  "It  is  very 
kind  to  remember  an  old  woman." 

"A  woman  is  as  old  as  she  looks,"  said  Andover,  "as  Byron  says." 

^^yron?"  said  the  old  lady. 

"I  ascribe  every  truism  to  Byron,"  said  Andover.  "It  makes  it  sound 
important  and  it  is  perfectly  safe.  Everybody  pretends  to  have  read 
Byron  yet  nobody  has." 

^TBurden  has  read  him,  I  believe,"  said  the  old  lady. 

Miss  Burden  sighed  romantically. 

Lord  Andover  shook  his  finger  at  Miss  Burden  with  considerable 

"No  boy  under  the  age  of  twenty  should  be  permitted  to  smoke 
cigarettes,"  said  he.  "And  no  woman  under  forty  should  be  permitted 
to  read  Byron." 

Caroline  Crewkerne  snorted. 

'TBy  the  way,"  said  Andover,  "now  I  am  here  I  must  pay  homage  to 
my  duchess." 

He  took  a  half  turn  in  the  direction  of  the  sofa.  Miss  Perry  was 
^Copyright,  1908,  by  Moffat,   Ta/rd  &  Company. 


34  ^I^HE  FOBUM 

still  seated  upon  it  in  her  pensive  attitude.  She  was  still  gazing  into 
vacancy,  and  she  was  somewhat  in  the  shadow. 

Immediately  to  the  left  of  Miss  Perry,  intervening  between  her  and 
Aunt  Caroline,  was  the  object  that  claimed  for  the  moment  the  whole 
of  Andover's  attention.  Bightly  so,  indeed,  for  it  was  nothing  less  than 
one  of  the  world's  masterpieces.  It  was  a  full  length  portrait  in  a 
massive  gilt  frame;  a  truly  regal  canvas  in  the  full  meridian  splendor 
of  English  art.  Under  the  pictxLre  in  bold  letters  was  the  magic  legend : 
"Araminta,  Duchess  of  Dorset,  by  Gainsborough." 

Araminta,  Duchess  of  Dorset,  was  a  young  girl  in  her  teens,  in  an 
inordinately  floppy  hat  of  the  period.  Her  countenance,  ineffably  simple, 
was  a  glamour  of  pink  and  white;  her  lips  were  slightly  parted;  the 
wonderful  blue  eyes  were  gazing  into  vacancy;  and  one  finger  was  un- 
mistakably in  her  mouth. 

Andover,  having  fixed  his  glass  with  some  elaboration,  slowly  backed 
a  few  paces,  and  gave  expression  to  the  adoration  he  always  affected  in 
the  presence  of  this  noble  work. 

In  silence  he  stood  to  absorb  the  poetry,  the  innocence,  the  appeal 
of  youth.    He  sighed  profoundly. 

"Caroline,'^  he  said,  "I  would  give  a  whole  row  of  Georgiana  Devon- 
shires  for  this.    In  my  judgment  it  has  never  been  equalled." 

"Grandmamma  Dorset  wears  well,"  said  Caroline  with  a  grim 

"It  ought  to  be  called  ^Simpliciiy,* "  said  Andover.  "It  ought  to 
be  called  ^Innocence.'  Upon  my  word  of  honor,  Caroline,  I  always 
feel  when  I  look  at  the  divine  Araminta  that  I  want  to  shed  tears." 

Caroline  Crewkeme  snorted. 

"Andover,"  said  she,  "I  have  noticed  that  when  a  man  begins  life  as 
a  cynic  he  invariably  ends  as  a  sentimentalist." 

"Caroline,"  said  her  old  friend,  sighing  deeply,  "you  are  a  pagan. 
You  have  no  soul." 

'TBurden  has  a  soul,"  said  the  contemptuous  Caroline.  "In  my 
opinion  she  would  be  better  without  it." 

"How  ironical  it  is,"  said  Andover,  "that  you  who  distrust  art  so 
profoundly  should  have  such  a  masterpiece  in  your  drawing-room." 

"I  am  given  to  understand  that  a  committee  will  buy  it  for  the 
nation  one  of  these  days,"  said  Caroline  indifferently. 

"Caroline,"  said  Andover,  "you  promised  years  ago  that  if  the  time 
ever  came  when  money  could  buy  Araminta  she  should  be  purchased 
for  the  Andover  Collection." 

"Well  the  time  has  not  come  yet." 


'^When  it  does  come  I  shall  hold  you  to  your  promise/* 

While  Andover  continued  his  examination  of  Qainsborough's  master- 
piece, Caroline  Crewkeme  said  to  her  gentlewoman,  ^TBurden,  get  my 

Andover  turned  away  from  the  picture  at  last.  Naturally  enough 
his  gaze  alighted  on  the  sofa.  Sitting  in  the  centre  thereof  was  the 
wonderful  Miss  Perry.  She  was  still  at  Slocum  Magna.  She  had  got 
to  her  third  slice  of  bread  and  jam.  Polly  was  pouring  out  a  second 
sensible  cup.  Dearest  papa  had  just  made  one  of  his  jokes.  Charley 
and  Milly  were  conducting  an  argument  as  to  who  was  entitled  to  the 
cake  with  the  currants  in  it.  Miss  Perry's  blue  eyes  were  unmistakably 
moist;  and  although  she  was  not  actually  sucking  her  finger  there  could 
be  no  doubt  that  at  any  moment  she  might  begin  to  do  so.  And  the 
inverted  vegetable  basket  that  crowned  her  seemed  to  flop  more  than 

It  was  no  wonder  that  Andover  gave  a  little  exclamation.  A  lover 
of  beauty  in  all  its  manifestations,  he  had  an  eye  for  nature  as  well 
as  for  art.  And  here,  side  by  side  with  Gainsborough's  masterpiece, 
making  due  allowance  for  a  number  of  trifling  details  which  did  not 
in  the  least  affect  the  subject,  was  an  almost  exact  replica  of  that  im- 
mortal work.  Andover,  in  spite  of  his  foibles,  had  the  seeing  eye.  Not- 
withstanding Miss  Perry's  preposterous  clothes,  one  thing  was  clear. 
Here  was  Araminta,  Duchess  of  Dorset,  in  the  flesh. 

He  swung  round  to  the  redoubtable  Caroline  with  the  glass  leaping 
out  of  his  eye. 

"Caroline,*'  he  cried,  ''a  throwback  I" 

That  old  woman  gazed  through  her  spectacles  at  the  occupant  of  the 
sofa  with  concentrated  grimness.  Miss  Perry  still  at  Slocum  Magna 
was  seriously  debating  whether  a  fourth  slice  of  bread  and  jam  was 
within  the  range  of  practical  politics. 

^'Andover,"  said  Caroline  coolly,  "I  believe  you  are  right." 

Surprise  and  enthusiasm  began  to  work  great  havoc  with  that  noble- 

'TTpon  my  word,"  said  he,  "it  is  the  most  wonderful  thing  I  have 
ever  seen  in  my  life.    A  pretty  trick  of  old  Mother  Nature's." 

'TDon't  be  a  coxcomb,  Andover,"  said  Caroline  wamingly. 

"A  perfect  throwback,"  said  that  amateur. 

Once  more  his  gaze  was  brought  to  bear  on  the  distracting  occupant 
of  the  sofa  whose  hair  was  the  color  of  daffodils,  and  whose  eyes  re- 
minded him  of  the  sky  of  Italy.  He  approached  her  with  his  most  ex- 
quisite air. 



"I  have  no  need  to  ask,"  said  he,  "whether  the  famous  duchess  is 
your  kinswoman." 

Miss  Perry  returned  from  Slocum  Magna  with  a  little  start.  She 
removed  her  finger  from  her  lip,  yet  her  thoughts  were  not  of  famous 

In  the  meantime  the  redoubtable  Caroline  said  nothing.  All  the 
same  she  was  watching  everything  with  those  relentless  eyes  of 

Miss  Perry  exhibited  no  surprise  and  no  embarrassment  at  being 
summoned  so  peremptorily  from  Slocum  Magna  by  such  a  distinguished 
looking  gentleman.  Perhaps  her  wonderful  blue  eyes  opened  a  little 
wider,  and  she  may  or  she  may  not  have  hoisted  a  little  color,  but  it 
really  seemed  as  though  her  thoughts  were  more  concerned  with  bread 
and  jam  than  with  Lord  Andover. 

^TVill  you  pardon  an  old  worshipper  of  your  famous  ancestress  if 
he  asks  your  name?"  said  he.  "I  hope  and  trust  it  is  a  legitimate 

Miss  Featherbrain  made  an  eflEort  to  cease  wool-gathering.  She 
smiled  with  a  friendliness  that  would  have  disarmed  a  sat3rr. 

^Ttfy  name  is  Araminta,"  she  drawled  in  her  hopelessly  ludicrous 
manner,  *T)ut  they  call  me  Goose  because  I  am  rather  a  Sil-lay." 

Andover  gave  a  chuckle  of  sheer  human  pleasure.  He  was  to  be 
pardoned  for  feeling  that  a  new  delight  had  been  offered  to  an  existence 
which  had  long  exhausted  every  aesthetic  form  of  joy. 

"Your  name  is  Araminta,"  he  repeated  by  a  kind  of  hypnotic  proc- 
ess, ^T)ut  they  call  you  Goose  because  you  are  rather  a  Silly." 

Miss  Perry  rewarded  Lord  Andover  with  an  indulgent  beam.  Her 
frank  smile  assured  him  that  he  had  had  the  good  fortune  to  interpret 
her  correctly.  It  was  not  easy  for  that  connoisseur  to  withdraw  his 
enchanted  gaze.  However,  at  last  he  contrived  to  do  so.  He  turned 
to  his  old  friend. 

"Caroline,"  said  he,  "the  fairies  have  fulfilled  my  wish.  I  have 
always  wanted  to  meet  a  Gainsborough  in  the  flesh  and  to  hear  her 
speak.    And  now  I  have  done  so,  I  know  why  Gainsborough  painted  'em." 

"Faugh,"  said  the  old  lady  vigorously,  "sentimentality  is  the  national 

"Ifo,  Caroline,"  said  Andover  sadly,  "you've  no  soul.  Why  don't 
you  present  me?" 

'Ttfy  niece.  Miss  Perry,"  said  Caroline.  ^Tjord  Andover,  my  old 

"Oh,  how  do  you  do,"  said  Miss  Perry,  shootmg  forth  her  hand  in 


her  own  private  and  particular  manner  to  Aunt  Caroline's  old  friend, 
"I  hope  you  are  quite  well." 

The  manner  in  which  Andover  enclosed  the  ample  paw  of  Miss 
Perry,  which  nevertheless  was  long  and  slender,  in  his  own  delicately 
manicured  fingers,  was  almost  epic. 

'Ttfiss  Perry,"  said  he,  '*this  is  a  great  moment  in  my  life." 

'TDon't  be  a  coxcomb,  Andover,"  said  Caroline  Crewkerne  with  great 
energy.  No  one  made  fuller  use  than  that  old  woman  of  the  privilege 
accorded  to  age  of  being  as  rude  as  it  pleases.  But  it  was  so  necessary 
that  the  wearer  of  the  vegetable  basket  should  not  get  notions  under 
it  before  she  had  been  in  Hill  Street  an  hour. 

'^y  dear  Miss  Perry,"  said  Andover  with  the  magniloquent  air 
with  which  he  occasionally  asked  a  question  in  the  Hereditary  Chamber, 
''are  you  acquainted  with  the  vast  metropolis?" 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Miss  Perry,  ''I  have  always  lived  at  Slocum  Magna." 

'TSeally,"  said  Andover  with  an  insincere  surprise.  'TBy  the  way, 
where  is  Slocum  Magna?" 

Doubtless  owing  to  the  fact  that  she  was  a  duke's  granddaughter. 
Miss  Perry  had  excellent  if  somewhat  rustic  breeding.  Brains  were 
not  her  strong  point,  but  she  had  been  long  enough  in  London  to 
anticipate  almost  instinctively  Lord  Andover's  question.  Moreover,  her 
astonishment  at  the  ignorance  of  London  people  was  softened  by  the 
friendly  indulgence  she  extended  to  everybody  on  the  slightest  pretext. 

''Slocum  Magna,"  said  Miss  Perry  without  the  least  appearance  of 
didacticism,  "is  the  next  village  to  Widdiford.  They  haven't  quite  got 
the  railway  at  Widdiford  yet,  but  it  is  only  three  miles  away." 

The  absence  of  the  railway  at  Widdiford  appeared  to  decide  Andover 
upon  his  course  of  action.  With  the  air  of  a  man  whose  mind  is  quite 
made  up,  he  addressed  Miss  Perry. 

"As  an  old  friend  of  your  accomplished  aunt's,"  said  he,  "of  many 
years'  standing,  I  feel  that  during  your  sojourn  in  the  vast  metropolis 
it  is  only  wise  and  right  that  I  should  act  in  loco  parentis." 

Now  although  Miss  Perry's  papa  was  a  very  good  classic,  he  had 
been  unable  to  communicate  his  excellence  in  the  dead  languages  to  his 
second  daughter.  Miss  Perry  made  no  secret  of  the  fact  that  she  would 
like  a  little  more  enlightennient. 

"A  sort  of  combination,  you  know,"  said  Andover  lucidly,  "of  a 
courier  and  a  cicerone  and  a  sincere  well  wisher.  One  feels  sure  it  will 
help  you  at  first  to  have  some  one  to  guide  you  through  the  traflSc." 

"Burden  is  quite  competent  to  see  that  she  doesn't  get  run  over," 
said  the  accomplished  aunt  of  Miss  Perry. 



"Also,  my  dear  Miss  Perry/*  said  Andover  mellifluously,  "you  may 
require  a  little  advice  occasionally  from  a  man  of  the  world.  The  vast 
metropolis  is  full  of  pitfalls  for  your  sex" 

^^e  have  poachers  at  Slocum  Magna/'  said  Miss'  Perry. 

"The  metropolis  is  diflEerent/'  said  Andover.  "I  regret  to  say  it 
harbors  every  known  form  of  wickedness.'* 

Miss  Perry's  eyes  opened  so  wide  that  they  seemed  to  magnetize 
Lord  Andover. 

"Are  there  r-r-robbers  ?" 

"A  great  number/'  said  Andover.  'They  lurk  in  every  street.  If 
you  have  never  been  to  London  before  you  will  certainly  need  advice 
and  protection." 

'T^at  fun !"  said  Miss  Perry.    "I  shall  write  to  tell  MufiBn." 

'TVoidd  it  be  an  unpardonable  curiosity  if  one  inquired  who  is  Muf- 

"My  sister,  don't  you  know,"  drawled  Miss  Perry.  "Her  name  is 
Elizabeth,  really.  But  we  call  her  Mufiin  because  she  is  rather  a  Baga- 

'Tour  family  appears  to  be  a  singularly  interesting  one,"  said 

"Papa  says  we  are  none  of  us  very  bright/'  said  Miss  Perry  with 
her  ludicrous  drawl,  "but  we  are  all  of  us  very  healthy,  except  Doggo, 
who  has  had  the  mange  twice." 

Andover  found  it  necessary  to  repeat  the  dictum  of  Miss  Perry's 
papa.    He  then  sat  down  beside  her  in  a  truly  paternal  manner. 

"Tell  me  about  your  papa,"  said  he  musically.  "I  am  immensely 
interested  in  him.  One  feels  one  ought  to  have  so  many  things  in 
common  with  such  a  papa  as  yours." 

"Papa  is  just  a  sweet "  began  Miss  Perry  with  a  frank  appear- 
ance of  pleasure.    But  she  got  no  farther. 

Aunt  Caroline  uplifted  an  immutable  finger. 

"Araminta,"  said  she,  "it  is  time  you  went  up  to  dress.  Burden, 
take  the  creature  to  her  room." 

Miss  Perry  rose  at  once  with  a  docility  that  was  charming.  She 
bestowed  her  most  frankly  indulgent  smile  upon  Andover  and  quitted 
the  drawing-room  in  Miss  Burden's  custody. 

Andover  screwed  his  glass  into  his  astonished  eye  to  gaze  after 
her  magnificence. 

"A  goddess,"  said  he.    "Juno.    A  great  work  of  nature." 

He  prepared  to  take  his  leave. 

"I  am  afraid,  Caroline,"  said  he,  "your  memory  begins  to  fail  a  little." 


**Bubbish/^  said  Caroline  robustly. 

*T)o  you  know  how  long  it  is  since  you  asked  me  to  dine  with  you?** 
said  Andover. 

^Tou  refused  three  times  running/*  said  Caroline  truculently.  "I 
am  determined  that  no  human  being  shall  refuse  a  fourth.** 

*^ell  you  know,**  said  Andover  coolly,  "you  were  just  a  little  diffi- 
cult the  last  twice  I  dined  with  you,  and  the  wine  was  abominable.  And 
with  all  that  excellent  claret  that  you  have,  and  that  *63  port,  and  that 
really  priceless  madeira — ^really,  Caroline,  considering  what  your  cellar 
can  do  if  it  chooses,  the  wine  was  unpardonable.  Still  I  am  in  no 
sense  a  vindictive  man.    1*11  dine  with  you  this  evening.** 

'Thank  you,  Andover,'*  said  Caroline  dryly.    "Eight  o'clock.** 

*^ight  o'clock,**  said  Andover. 

My  lord  took  his  leave  with  a  jauntiness  that  recalled  the  vanished 
era  of  his  youth. 

Two  hours  later  the  noble  earl  was  back  in  Hill  Street.  He  looked 
particularly  soigne  in  the  choicest  of  evening  clothes.  They  fitted  his 
corsetted  form  to  perfection. 

"Where  is  the  fair  Miss  Araminta?"  said  he,  giving  his  arm  to  his 

'*My  niece  is  dining  upstairs  this  evening,**  said  Caroliue  Crewkcme. 

Profoundly  distrusting  the  appearance  of  the  sherry  and  the  claret, 
Andover  made  a  modest  demand  for  whiskey  and  soda.  The  fare  was 
scanty,  but  what  there  was  of  it  was  not  ill  cooked.  Also  Caroline  was  not 
so  tiresome  as  he  had  anticipated.  Doubtless  she  was  a  little  exhilarated 
by  the  doings  of  the  day.  She  was  a  very  sharp-witted  old  woman. 
Her  shrewdness  had  already  foreseen  that  the  appearance  of  a  highly 
original  niece  in  a  somewhat  moribund  menage  might  bring  renegades 
back  to  Hill  Street  craving  pardon.  A  glimpse  of  the  immediate  future 
was  afforded  by  the  spectacle  of  a  peculiarly  spick  and  span  Andover 
seated  between  Miss  Burden  and  herself. 

The  turn  of  events  lent  an  old-time  pungency  to  what  had  once 
Tanked  as  the  most  malicious  tongue  in  London. 

"Upon  my  honor,**  said  Andover,  who  was  enchanted,  "my  dear 
Caroline,  you  are  quite  at  your  high  water  mark.** 

Caroline  valued  that  kind  of  compliment,  and  she  acquiesced  in  it 
grimly.  Andover*s  remark  was  quite  sincere,  and  in  order  to  attest 
his  bona  fides  he  told  a  story  that  caused  Miss  Burden  to  spill  the  salt, 
while  only  the  intervention  of  a  miracle  averted  a  more  signal  disaster 
to  the  claret. 

Andover  was  duly  rewarded.     By  the  time  they  had  got  to  the 


mahogany — Caroline  Crewkeme  was  a  stickler  for  old  fashions — ^the 
hostess  said  in  an  aside  to  Mr*  Marchbanks,  "The  madeira  and  the  '63 
port  wine/' 

There  can  be  little  doubt  that  Andover  was  sustained  throughout 
this  not  specially  exhilarating  function  by  the  hope  of  seeing  the 
peerless  Miss  Araminta  in  the  drawing-room  after  dinner.  In  this, 
however,  he  was  disappointed.  The  tardy  minutes  passed,  but  Miss 
Araminta  did  not  appear.  At  last  in  desperation  he  was  moved  to 
inquire : 

^TVhere  hides  the  reluctant  fair?" 

"Speak  English,  Andover,''  said  Caroline. 

"The  adorable  Miss  Perry." 

"The  creature  is  in  bed,"  said  Caroline  incisively.  "It  is  a  long 
journey  from  Slocum  Magna  for  a  growing  girl." 

"Is  one  given  to  understand,"  said  Andover,  "that  she  made  the 
whole  journey  in  a  single  day  ?" 

"In  something  under  twenty-four  hours,  I  believe,"  said  Caroline. 
"Express  trains  travel  at  such  a  remarkable  rate  in  these  days." 

In  the  circumstances  there  was  only  one  thing  for  Andover  to  do, 
and  this  he  did.    He  took  his  leave. 

In  the  privacy  of  his  hansom  on  the  way  to  the  Gayety  Theatre 
he  ruminated  exceedingly. 

"That  old  woman,"  he  mused,  ^^as  got  all  the  trumps  in  her  hand 
again.  A  disagreeable  old  thing,  but  she  does  know  how  to  play  her 
cards  when  she  gets  'em." 

The  stall  next  to  Andover's  was  in  the  occupation  of  no  less  a  person 
than  George  Bettcrton. 

"Hallo,  George,"  said  Andover,  "you  in  London." 

^TTe-es,"  said  George  heavily.  He  did  not  seem  to  be  altogether 
clear  upon  the  point.  'The  War  Office  people  are  in  their  usual  mess 
with  the  MQitia.'' 

"But  she  is  at  Biarritz,"  said  Andover. 

"I  have  another  one  now,"  said  George  with  brevity. 

The  noise  and  flamboyance  of  the  ballet  rendered  further  conversa- 
tion undesirable.  However,  Andover  took  up  the  thread  of  discourse 
at  the  end  of  the  act. 

"George,"  said  he  with  considerable  Solemnity,  'like  myself,  you  have 
grown  old  in  the  love  of  art." 

George's  assent  was  of  the  grufifest.  Andover  was  going  to  be  a  bore 
as  usual. 

'TTou  remember  that  Gainsborough  of  Caroline  Crewkeme's?" 


'TTe-es/'  said  George.  "I  ofiEered  her  twenty  thousand  pounds  for 
it  for  the  Cheadle  Collection/' 

'TSave  you  though>"  said  Andover.  ^'Well,  mind  you  don't  renew 
the  offer.  The  refusal  of  it  was  promised  to  me  in  Crewkeme's  life- 

George  Betterton  began  to  gobble  like  a  turkey.  He  looked  as 
though  he  wanted  to  call  some  one  a  liar. 

'^ell,  ifs  too  soon  to  quarrel  over  it/'  said  Andover  harmoniously, 
'Tjecause  she  doesn't  intend  to  part  with  it  to  anybody  at  present." 

"She's  a  perverse  old  woman/'  said  George,  "and  age  don't  improve 

"I  mentioned  her  Gainsborough,"  said  Andover,  who  was  on  the 
rack  of  his  own  enthusiasm,  'T)ecause  a  very  odd  thing  has  happened. 
The  original  of  that  picture  has  found  her  way  into  Hill  Street." 

'TVTiat,  Grandmother  Dorset!"  said  George  contemptuously.  ^TVTiy, 
she's  been  in  her  grave  a  hundred  years." 

"An  absolute  throwback  has  turned  up  at  Hill  Street,"  said  Andover 
impressively.  "If  you  want  to  see  a  living  and  breathing  Gainsborough 
walking  and  talking  in  twentieth  century  London  call  on  Caroline 
Crewkeme  some  wet  afternoon." 

George  Betterton  was  not  at  all  aesthetically  minded.  But  like  so 
many  of  his  countrymen,  he  always  had  a  taste  for  "something  fresh." 

'T  will,"  said  he.    And  he  spoke  as  if  he  meant  it. 

Then  it  was  that  Andover  grew  suddenly  alive  to  the  magnitude  of 
his  indiscretion.  Eeally,  he  had  acted  with  consummate  folly!  He 
had  a  clear  start  of  all  the  field,  yet  through  an  unbridled  natural 
enthusiasm  and  a  lifelong  love  of  imparting  information,  he  must  needs 
within  an  hour  set  one  of  the  most  dangerous  men  in  England  upon  the 

George  Betterton  had  his  limitations,  but  where  the  other  sex  was 
concerned  he  was  undoubtedly  that,  as  Andover  had  reason  to  know.  A 
widower  of  nine  and  fifty,  who  had  buried  two  wives  without  finding  an 
heir  to  his  great  estates,  there  was  little  doubt  that  he  meant  to  come  up 
to  the  scratch  for  the  third  time,  although,  to  be  sure,  of  late  his  courses 
had  not  seemed  to  lead  in  that  direction.  But  Caroline  Crewkeme, 
who  knew  most  things,  seemed  quite  clear  upon  the  point. 

Yes,  George  Betterton's  'T  wfll"  had  a  sinister  sound  about  it. 
Andover  himself  was  five  and  sixty  and  a  bachelor,  and  in  his  heart 
of  hearts  he  had  good  reason  to  believe  that  he  was  not  a  marrying 
man.  He  had  long  owed  his  primal  duty  to  a  great  position  in  the 
world,  and  to  the  scorn  of  his  family  and  the  amusement  of  his  friends. 



he  had  not  yet  fulfilled  it.  He  was  too  fond  of  adventures,  he  declared 
romantically — a  confession  that  a  man  old  enough  to  be  a  grandfather 
ought  to  be  ashamed  to  make,  declared  the  redoubtable  Caroline  with 
her  most  fearsome  snort.  More  than  once,  it  is  true,  Andover  had 
thought  he  had  seen  the  writing  on  the  wall.  But  when  his  constitu- 
tional apathy  permitted  him  to  examine  it  more  closely  he  found  it 
had  been  written  for  some  one  else. 

However,  he  had  come  away  from  Hill  Street  that  evening  in  such 
a  state  of  suppressed  enthusiasm,  that  in  his  present  mood  he  was  by 
no  means  sure  that  he  had  not  seen  the  writing  again.  It  was  certainly 
odd  that  a  man  with  his  record  and  at  his  time  of  life  should  have 
any  such  feeling.  But  there  is  no  accounting  for  these  things.  There- 
fore, he  left  the  theatre  with  an  idea  taking  root  in  him  that  he  had 
been  guilty  of  an  act  of  gross  folly  in  blowing  the  trumpet  so  soon. 
Why  should  he  help  to  play  Caroline's  game?  He  should  have  left  it 
to  her  to  summon  this  Eichmond  to  the  field. 

"Caroline  will  lead  him  a  dance  though,"  mused  Andover  on  the 
threshold  of  Ward's.  "And  I  know  how  to  handle  the  ribands  better 
than  he  does.    He's  got  the  mind  of  a  dromedary,  thank  God !" 

In  the  meantime  the  cause  of  these  reflections  was  lying  very  forlorn 
and  very  wideawake  in  the  most  imposing  chamber  in  which  she  had 
ever  slept.  The  bed  was  large  but  cold ;  the  chintz  hangings  were  im- 
maculate but  unsympathetic;  the  engravings  of  classical  subjects  and 
of  august  relations  whom  she  had  never  seen  with  which  the  walls 
were  hung,  the  austere  magnificence  of  the  furniture  and  the  expensive 
nature  of  the  bric-a-brac  made  Miss  Perry  yearn  exceedingly  for  the 
cheerful  simplicity  of  Slocum  Magna. 

Almost  as  far  back  as  Miss  Perry  could  remember  it  had  been 
given  to  her  before  attempting  to  repose  to  beat  Muffin  over  the  head 
with  a  pillow.  But  in  this  solemn  piece  of  upholstery,  which  apparently 
had  been  designed  for  an  empress,  such  friendly  happenings  as  these 
were  out  of  the  question. 

However,  she  had  Tobias  with  her.  The  wicker  basket  was  on  a 
little  laquered  table  beside  her  bed.  And  as  she  lay  with  a  slow  and 
silent  tear  dropping  at  regular  intervals  out  of  her  blue  eyes,  she  had 
her  right  hand  resting  firmly  but  affectionately  on  the  lid  of  Tobias's 
local  habitation.  That  quaint  animal,  all  unconscious  of  the  honor 
done  to  him,  was  wrapped  in  slumber  with  his  ugly  brown  nose  tucked 
under  his  lean  brown  paws. 

Thus  was  Miss  Perry  discovered  at  a  quarter  to  eleven  that  evening 
when  Miss  Burden  entered  to  embrace  her. 



"I  want  to  go  home  to  Slocum  Magna/*  said  Miaa  Perry  with  a 
drawl  and  a  sob  whose  united  effect  must  have  been  supremely  ridic- 
ulous had  it  not  been  the  offspring  of  legitimate  pathos. 

Miss  Burden  offered  her  the  consolations  of  one  intimately  acquainted 
with  pathos.  Every  night  for  many  long  and  weary  years  she  had 
longed  to  go  home  to  her  own  rustic  hermitage,  which,  however,  had 
no  existence  outside  her  fancy. 

^^earest  Araminta,'*  said  Miss  Burden,  caressing  her  in  a  very 
genuine  manner,  "you  will  soon  get  used  to  the  strangeness.*' 

"I  want  to  go  home  to  Slocum  Magna,**  sobbed  Miss  Perry. 

"I  am  sure  you  are  a  good  and  brave  and  noble  girl,**  said  Miss 
Burden,  who  believed  profoundly  in  goodness  and  bravery  and  nobility. 

'Tapa  said  I  was,'*  sobbed  Miss  Perry,  settling  her  hand  more  firmly 
than  ever  upon  the  basket  of  Tobias. 

"To-morrow  you  will  feel  happier,  Araminta  dearest,**  said  Miss 
Burden,  bestowing  a  final  hug  upon  the  distressed  Miss  Perry. 

Miss  Burden  was  guilty  of  saying  that  which  she  did  not  believe, 
but  let  us  hope  no  one  will  blame  her. 



Prom  the  moment  that  "Caroline  Crewkeme*s  Gainsborough**  came 
upon  the  town  there  was  no  denying  her  success.  She  was  a  new  sensa- 
tion; and  happy  in  her  sponsors  the  diminished  glories  of  Hill  Street 
emerged  from  their  eclipse.  If  old  Lady  Crewkeme  derived  a  grim  satis- 
faction from  the  absolute  possession  of  the  nine  days'  wonder,  Andover 
was  one  of  the  proudest  and  happiest  men  in  London.  He  took  to  him- 
self the  whole  merit  of  the  discovery. 

"I  assure  you,**  he  declared  to  a  circle  of  the  elect,  "that  blind  old 
woman  would  never  have  seen  the  likeness.  It  was  quite  providential 
that  I  happened  to  look  in  and  point  it  out.** 

In  matters  of  art  Andover's  taste  was  really  fastidious.  And  in 
addition  to  his  other  foibles  no  man  was  more  susceptible  to  beauty. 
Every  morning  for  a  week  he  called  at  Hill  Street,  to  view  his  dis- 
covery more  adequately  in  the  full  light  of  day.  It  was  in  vain,  how- 
ever, that  he  tried  to  surprise  her.    She  was  kept  very  close. 

For  one  thing  the  creature  had  positively  no  clothes  in  which  to 
submit  to  the  ordeal  of  the  public  gaze.  Almost  the  first  thing  Caroline 
Crewkeme  did  was  to  send  for  her  dressmaker,  who  was  commanded  to 



make  Miss  Perry  "appear  respectable/'  and  was  given  only  three  days  in 
which  to  perform  the  operation. 

"I  assure  your  ladyship  it  is  impossible  in  three  days,"  said  the 

"If  that  is  your  opinion/'  said  her  ladyship,  "I  shall  go  elsewhere.'' 

As  it  was  her  ladyship's  custom  to  pay  her  bills  quarterly,  on  the 
morning  of  the  fourth  day  Miss  Perry  came  down  to  breakfast  in  a 
blue  serge  costume.  It  was  rigid  in  outline  and  formal  in  cut.  In  fact 
it  had  been  chosen  by  Miss  Burden,  and  had  been  wrought  in  the  siyle 
affected  by  that  model  of  reticent  good  breeding. 

It  was  in  this  attire,  surmounted  by  a  straw  hat  of  the  regulation 
type  in  lieu  of  the  inverted  vegetable  basket,  that  Andover  saw  Miss 
Perry  for  the  second  time. 

"What  are  you  thinking  of,  Caroline?"  said  he  tragically.  'T^ere 
is  your  instinct?  It  is  a  gross  act  of  vandalism  to  consign  a  genuine 
Gainsborough  to  the  tender  mercies  of  a  woman's  tailor." 

"Pooh!"  said  Caroline. 

All  the  same  Andover  was  roused  to  action.  At  noon  next  day  a  cab 
appeared  at  the  door  of  Caroline's  residence.  It  contained  a  milliner 
and  twenty-two  hats  in  divers  boxes.  The  milliner  said  she  had  in- 
structions to  wait  for  Lord  Andover. 

The  redoubtable  Caroline's  first  instinct  was  to  order  the  milliner 
oflE  the  premises. 

"Gross  impertinence,"  she  declared. 

However,  the  perverse  old  woman  had  a  liberal  share  of  reason. 
Andover  had  his  foibles,  but  emphatically  he  knew  on  which  side  of  the 
bread  to  look  for  the  butter.  In  all  matters  relating  to  this  world,  from 
race-horses  to  French  millinery,  wise  people  respected  his  judgment. 

At  five  minutes  after  midday  Andover  himself  appeared  in  the  com- 
pany of  an  amiable,  courteous  and  distinguished  foreigner. 

'TVTiat,  pray,  is  the  meaning  of  this  invasion?"  said  Caroline  with 
a  snort  of  hostility. 

**This  is  Monsieur  Duprez,"  said  Andover,  "the  great  genius  who 
comes  to  London  twice  a  year  from  Eaquin's  at  Paris." 

Monsieur  Duprez,  overwhelmed  by  this  melodious  flattery,  very 
nearly  touched  the  Persian  carpet  with  his  nose.  Caroline  scowled  at 

"Andover,"  said  she,  "who  has  given  you  authority  to  turn  my  house 
into  a  dressmaker's  shop." 

"I  have  the  authority,"  said  Andover,  "of  a  pure  taste  unvitiated 
by  Whig  prejudice  and  Victorian  tradition.    Miss  Burden,  will  you  have 


the  great  goodness  to  summon  Nature's  masterpiece  so  that  Art,  her 
handmaiden,  may  make  an  obeisance  to  her;  and  might  I  also  suggest 
that  you  procure  Lady  Crewkeme's  knitting." 

Miss  Burden,  thrilled  by  the  unmistakable  impact  of  romance,  waited 
with  animation  for  permission  to  obey  Lord  Andover. 

"I  will  not  have  my  niece  tricked  out  like  a  play-actress  or  an 
American,''  said  Caroline.    "Andover,  understand  that  clearly." 

Andover,  feeling  his  position  to  be  impregnable,  was  as  cool  as  you 
please.  As  is  the  case  with  so  many  people,  his  coolness  bordered  upon 
insolence.  Caroline  was  so  much  the  slave  of  her  worldly  wisdom  that 
in  a  case  of  this  kind  she  would  be  compelled  to  bow  the  knee  to  an 
array  of  acknowledged  experts.  Besides,  it  was  so  easy  for  Andover  to 
justify  himself  in  the  most  dramatic  manner.  He  pointed  with  a 
dramatic  gesture  to  the  world  famous  Duchess  of  Dorset. 

"Caroline,"  said  he,  "if  you  will  take  the  advice  of  an  old  friend, 
you  will  attend  to  your  knitting.  Three  experts  are  present.  They 
can  be  trusted  to  deal  with  this  matter  eifectually.  Indeed,  I  might  say 
four.  Miss  Burden,  I  know  you  to  be  in  cordial  sympathy  with  the 
highest  in  whatever  form  it  may  manifest  itself.  Therefore,  I  entreat 
you,  particularly  as  the  time  of  Monsieur  Duprez  and  Madame  Pelissier 
belongs  not  to  themselves,  nor  to  us,  but  to  civilization,  to  produce  our 
great  work  of  nature  in  order  that  her  handmaiden.  Art,  may  deck 

Caroline's  hostile  upper  lip  took  a  double  curl,  a  feat  which  was  the 
outcome  of  infinite  practice  in  the  expression  of  scorn. 

^T.  hope  you  will  not  put  ideas  into  the  creature's  head,  that's  all," 
said  she.  "Fortunately  she  is  such  a  bom  simpleton  that  it  is  doubtful 
whether  she  is  capable  of  retaining  any.    Burden,  you  may  fetch  her." 

It  was  a  charming  April  morning  and  the  sunshine  was  flooding  the 
room.  It  made  a  canopy  for  Miss  Perry  as  she  came  in  simply  and 
modestly  through  the  drawing-room  door.  At  once  it  challenged  that 
wonderful  yellow  mane  of  hers  that  was  the  color  of  daffodils,  which 
on  its  own  part  seemed  to  reciprocate  the  flashing  caresses  of  the  light 
of  the  morning.  The  yellow  mane  appeared  to  grow  incandecent  and 
shoot  out  little  lights  of  its  own.  The  glamour  of  pink  and  white  and 
azure  was  very  wonderful,  too,  as  the  sunlight  wantoned  with  it  in  its 
own  inimitable  manner.  Here  was  Juno,  indeed,  and  none  recognized 
the  fact  so  fully  as  the  Prince  of  the  Morning. 

Monsieur  Duprez's  eyes  sparkled.  Madame  Pelissier  gave  a  little 

'TTou  have  here  a  great  subject,"  said  Lord  Andover  to  those  rare 



artists,  ^'and  there  you  have  the  manner  in  which  the  great  Gainsborough 
treated  it/' 

Madame  Pelissier  disclosed  her  creations.  Hat  after  hat  was  fitted 
to  the  daffodil-colored  mane.  Andover  walked  round  and  round  the 
young  goddess,  surveying  each  separate  effect  from  every  point  of  view. 
His  gravity  could  not  have  been  excelled  by  a  minister  of  state. 

"They  must  be  enormous/'  said  he  with  ever-mounting  enthusiasm. 
"They  must  sit  at  the  perfect  angle.  They  must  be  of  the  hue  of  the 
wing  of  the  raven.  Yes,  feathers,  decidedly.  And  they  must  flop 
almost  absurdly.'' 

"Andover,"  said  the  warning  voice,  "don't  be  a  coxcomb." 

"Yes,"  said  Andover,  "I  like  that  wicker-work  arrangement.  The 
way  it  flops  is  capital.  It  will  do  for  week  days.  But  there  must  be 
one  for  Sunday  mornings  in  which  to  go  to  church." 

Madame  Pelissier  was  inclined  to  be  affronted  by  Andover's  extreme 
fastidiousness.  There  was  not  a  single  creation  in  the  whole  collection 
which  had  quite  got  "that,"  he  declared,  snapping  his  fingers  in  the 
manner  of  Sir  Joshua. 

"Madame  Pelissier,"  said  he  solemnly,  "it  comes  to  this.  You  will 
have  to  invoke  your  genius  to  create  a  Sunday  hat  for  Juno.  You 
observe  what  Gainsborough  did  for  her  grandmamma.  Mark  well  that 
masterpiece,  dear  Madame  Pelissier,  for  je  prends  mon  bien  oil  je  le 

''Carte  blanche,  Milorf  said  Madame  Pelissie  with  a  little  shrug. 

''Absolument/'  said  my  lord.  "Give  a  free  rein  to  your  genius,  ma 
chire  madame.  Crown  the  young  goddess  with  the  noblest  creation  that 
ever  consecrated  the  drab  pavement  of  Bond  Street." 

"I  warn  you,  Andover,"  said  the  aunt  of  the  young  goddess,  "I  will 
not  have  the  creature  figged  out  like  a  ballet  dancer  or  a  female  in  a 

"Peace,  Caroline,"  said  Andover.  ^^here  is  your  knitting?"  He 
shook  a  finger  of  warning. at  her.  "Really,  Caroline,  you  must  refrain 
from  Philistine  observations  in  the  presence  of  those  who  are  dedicated 
to  the  service  of  art." 

The  old  lady  snorted  with  great  energy. 

In  the  meantime  Monsieur  Duprez,  crowing  with  delight,  was  ab- 
sorbing Gainsborough's  masterpiece. 

"I  haf  it,"  said  he,  tapping  the  centre  of  his  forehead,  "ze  very 

'Ttf ay  it  prove  so,  my  dear  Duprez,"  said  Andover,  "for  then  we  shall 
have  a  nine  days'  wonder  for  the  town." 


Thus  it  will  be  seen  that  in  the  beginning  ^^Caroline  Crewkerne's 
(Jainsborough/^  as  she  was  so  soon  to  be  christened  by  the  privileged 
few  who  write  the  labels  of  history,  owed  much  to  Andover's  foresight, 
judgment  and  undoubted  talent  for  stage  management. 

She  really  made  her  d^but  at  Saint  Sepulchre's  Church,  in  which 
sacred  and  fashionable  edifice,  I  regret  to  say,  her  Aunt  Caroline  was 
an  inconstant  worshipper — ^and  afterwards  in  Hyde  Park  on  the  second 
Sunday  morning  in  May. 

At  least  a  fortnight  before  Andover  had  declared  his  intention  to 
the  powers  that  obtained  in  Hill  Street  of  making  Miss  Perry  known 
to  London  on  the  first  really  bright  and  warm  Sunday  morning.  Thanks 
to  the  behavior  of  providence  her  church-goiug  clothes  arrived  the  even- 
ing before  the  weather;  whilst  only  a  few  hours  previously  a  deft-fingered 
jewel  of  a  maid  had  arrived  expressly  from  Paris,  at  the  instance  of 
the  experts,  who  was  learned  in  the  set  of  the  most  marvellous  frocks 
and  hats,  and  who  also  was  a  rare  artist  in  the  human  hair. 

Therefore,  let  none  confess  to  surprise  that  Miss  Perry  was  the  inno- 
cent cause  of  some  excitement  when  she  burst  upon  an  astonished  world. 
Mr.  Marchbanks  was  the  first  to  behold  Miss  Perry  when  on  this  historic 
second  Sunday  morning  in  May  she  quitted  the  privacy  of  her  chamber  fit- 
tingly clothed  to  render  homage  to  her  Maker.  He  beheld  her  as  she  came 
down  the  stairs  in  an  enormous  black  hat  with  a  wonderful  feather,  a 
miracle  of  harmonious  daring,  and  in  a  lilac  frock,  not  answerrag,  it  is 
true,  in  every  detail  to  that  in  which  her  famous  grandmamma  had 
been  painted  by  Gainsborough,  but  none  the  less  a  triumph  for  all 
concerned  in  it.  However,  to  judge  by  the  demeanor  of  shocked  stupe- 
faction of  the  virtuous  man  who  first  regarded  it,  who  himself  was 
about  to  accompany  Mrs.  Plunket  to  divine  worship,  this  was  an  achieve- 
ment that  was  not  to  the  taste  of  everybody.  In  the  opinion  of  Mr. 
Marchbanks,  it  might  be  magnificent  but  it  was  not  religion. 

By  one  of  those  coincidences  in  which"  real  life  indulges  so  reck- 
lessly. Miss  Perry  had  not  reached  the  bottom  of  the  stairs  when 
Andover,  duly  admitted  by  Mr.  Collins,  and  himself  armed  cajhd-pie  for 
divine  worship  in  a  brand-new  wig,  with  freshly  dyed  moustache,  light 
gray  trousers,  lilac  gloves,  white  gaiters,  and  a  single  bloom  in  his 
buttonhole  appeared  on  the  parquet  floor  of  the  entrance  hall. 

His  greeting  was  almost  as  melodramatic  as  his  appearance. 

"A  positive  triumph,*'  he  cried.  "My  dear  young  lady — ^my  dear 
Miss  Perry — ^my  dear  Miss  Araminta,  the  highest  hopes  of  a  sanguine 
temperament  have  been  exceeded.  Art,  the  handmaiden,  has  done  her 
work  nobly,  but,  of  course,  the  real  triumph  belongs  to  nature.*' 



"Isn't  my  new  frock  a  nice  one?''  said  Miss  Perry. 


"It  is  almost  as  nice  as  the  mauve  one  Muffin  had  last  summer  but 
one/'  said  Miss  Perry. 

It  seemed  to  Andover  that  the  drawl  of  Miss  Peny  was  absurdly 
suited  to  her  clothes.    He  led  her  proudly  to  the  morning  room. 

"Caroline,"  said  he,  "prepare  for  the  conquest  of  London." 

That  old  woman  had  never  looked  so  fierce.  As  a  preliminary  she 
snuffed  the  air. 

^^urden,"  said  she,  "cease  behaving  like  a  fool  and  have  the  goodness 
to  get  my  spectacles." 

Miss  Burden  obeyed  her  in  a  kind  of  delirium.  The  scrutiny  of 
Caroline  Crewkeme  was  severe  and  prolonged.  There  was  no  approba- 
tion in  it. 

"An  old-fashioned  respect  for  the  English  Sunday,"  said  she,  "pre- 
cludes my  going  to  church  with  a  tableau  vivant" 

Andover  scorned  her  openly. 

^TTou  perverse  woman,"  said  he,  "why  are  you  so  blind?  Here  is  a 
triumph  that  will  ring  through  the  town.  Are  you  prepared  to  identify 
yourself  with  it  or  are  you  not?" 

Caroline  Crewkeme  subjected  her  niece  to  a  second  prolonged  and 
severe  scrutiny. 

"Humph,"  said  she  ungraciously. 

However,  she  was  a  very  shrewd  old  woman.  Further,  she  was  a 
very  clear-sighted  old  woman  who  knew  herself  to  be  what  Andover 
did  not  hesitate  to  proclaim  her.  She  was  a  Philistine.  Upon  any  matter 
which  impinged  upon  life's  amenities  she  was  far  too  wise  to  trudt  her 
own  judgment.  Andover,  on  the  other  hand,  in  spite  of  an  inclination 
toward  the  bizarre  and  the  freakish,  she  allowed  to  have  taste. 

"I  shall  go  to  church,"  she  announced  to  her  gentlewoman. 

She  spoke  as  if  she  were  flinging  down  a  gauntlet. 

The  Church  of  Saint  Sepulchre,  as  the  elect  do  not  need  to  be  told, 
is  quite  near  to  Hill  Street.  Caroline  Crewkeme  was  ready  to  start  ten 
minutes  before  the  service  began. 

"Easy,  Caroline,"  said  Andover,  studying  his  ^atch  reflectively; 
"there  is  no  hurry." 

"Even  if  they  bore  one,"  said  Caroline,  "it  is  not  good  manners  to 
be  disrespectful  to  the  officiating  clergy." 

Andover,  however,  although  he  advanced  no  positive  reasons  why 
disrespect  should  be  offered  to  the  officiating  clergy,  showed  a  marked 
disposition  for  divine  service  to  begin  without  him.     He  loitered  and 

ARAMIl^A  49 

loitered  upon  absurdly  flimsy  pretexts.  And  just  as  the  procession  was 
about  to  start  from  the  door  of  Caroline's  residence  he  mislaid  his  um- 



"Never  mind  your  umbrella,"  said  Caroline  tartly. 
'T  must  mind  my  umbrella,"  said  Andover  plaintively.    "If  one  at- 
tends divine  worship  in  London  in  the  middle  of  the  season  without  an 
umbrella,  one  is  bound  to  be  taken  for  an  agnostic." 

"Collins,"  demanded  Caroline,  "what  have  you  done  with  his  lord- 
ship's umbrella?" 

'TTou  placed  it  here,  my  lord,"  said  Mr.  Collins,  indicating  an  um- 
brella with  an  ivory  handle  and  a  gold  band. 

^Tfonsense,"  said  Andover.  "I  don't  own  an  umbrella  with  an  ivory 

Mr.  Collins  looked  at  the  gold  band  and  assured  his  lordship  imper- 
turbably  that  his  name  was  upon  it.    Andover  examined  it  himself. 

"It  is  the  name  of  my  father,"  said  he.  "How  the  dooce  did  an 
umbrella  with  an  ivory  handle  come  into  the  possession  of  my  father  I" 

The  clock  in  the  hall  slowly  chimed  eleven.  The  procession  started 
for  Saint  Sepulchre's  with  the  redoubtable  Caroline  in  a  decidedly  un- 
christian temper,  with  Miss  Burden  profoundly  uncomfortable,  with  Miss 
Perry  innocently  absorbed  in  her  new  frock  and  preoccupied  with  the 
modest  hope  that  the  passers-by  would  notice  it;  while  Andover  walked 
by  her  side  apparently  without  a  thought  in  his  head  save  the  philo- 
sophic significance  of  an  ivory-handled  umbrella. 

"I  remember  now,  my  dear  Miss  Araminta,"  said  he.  ^T.i  was  given  to 
my  grandfather  as  a  token  of  esteem  by  that  singularly  constituted 
monarch  George  the  Fourth." 

^T.  am  sure  it  must  be  almost  as  nice  as  Muffin's  was,"  said  Miss 
Perry.  "That  old  gentleman  with  the  white  moustache  turned  round 
to  look  at  it." 

"Did  he  ?"  said  Andover,  fixing  his  eyeglass  truculently. 

'Muffin's  was  mauve,"  said  Miss  Perry.  "But  I  think  lilac  is  almost 
as  nice,  don't  you  ?" 

"It  is  all  a  matter  of  taste,  my  dear  Miss  Araminta,"  said  Andover. 
*Tancy  one  entering  a  West  End  church  with  an  umbrella  with  an  ivory 


50  ^I^HE  FORUM 

^Wbj  shouldii't  one,  pray?"  snorted  Caroline  from  the  recesses  of  her 
bath  chair. 

"My  dear  Caroline,"  said  Andover,  "it  looks  so  worldly." 

"Humph,"  said  Caroline. 

Scarcely  had  the  procession  reached  the  outer  precincts  of  Saint  Se- 
pulchre's when  its  ears  were  smitten  with  the  sound  of  a  thousand  fervent 
Yoices  uplifted  in  adulation  of  their  Creator. 

"There,  Andover,"  said  Caroline,  "now  you  are  satisfied.  We  are 

This  fact,  however,  did  not  seem  to  perturb  Andover  so  much  as  it 
ought  to  have  done.  He  even  deprecated  the  alacrity  with  which  Caro- 
line left  her  bath  chair,  and  the  determined  manner  in  which  she  pre- 
pared to  head  the  procession  into  the  sacred  edifice. 

'^Easy,  Caroline,"  said  he.    *Tiet  *em  get  fairly  on  to  their  1^.*' 

As  the  procession  filed  very  slowly  down  the  central  aisle  with  the 
fervent  voices  still  upraised  and  the  organ  loudly  pealing,  more  than  one 
pair  of  eyes  took  their  fill  of  it.  There  was  not  a  worshipper  within  those 
four  walls  who  did  not  know  who  the  old  woman  was  with  the  hawklike 
features  and  the  ebony  walking  stick.  Nor  were  they  at  a  loss  for  the 
identiiy  of  the  distinguished  if  slightly  overdressed  gentleman  who  came 
in  her  train.  Moreover,  the  wonderful  creature  in  the  picture  hat  and  the 
lilac  frock  did  not  fail  to  inspire  their  curiosity. 

Caroline  Crewkeme's  pew  was  at  the  far  end  of  the  church,  next  but 
two  to  the  chancel.  The  procession  had  reached  the  middle  of  the  central 
aisle  when  there  came  a  brief  lull  in  the  proceedings.  The  organ  was 
mufSed  in  a  passage  of  peculiar  solemnity ;  the  fervor  of  the  voices  was 
subdued  in  harmony;  there  was  hardly  a  sound  to  be  heard,  when  An- 
dover had  the  misfortune  to  drop  his  umbrella. 

The  sound  of  the  ivory  handle  resolutely  meeting  cold  marble  at  such 
an  intensely  solemn  moment  was  really  dramatic.  Not  a  person  through- 
out the  whole  of  the  sacred  edifice  who  could  fail  to  hear  the  impact  of 
the  ill-fated  umbrella.  For  the  umbrella  was  indeed  ill-fated.  The 
ivory  handle  lay  upon  the  marble  shivered  in  three  pieces.  Almost  every 
eye  in  the  church  seemed  to  be  fixed  upon  the  owner  of  the  umbrella.  A 
wave  of  indignation  appeared  to  pass  over  the  congregation,  which 
seemed  to  make  the  air  vibrate.  Not  only  did  the  owner  of  the  umbrella 
come  late  to  church,  but  he  must  needs  disturb  the  sanctity  of  the  occa- 
sion by  mundanely  dropping  his  umbrella  with  extraordinary  violence 
and  publicity. 

Prom  a  little  to  the  left  of  Andover,  as  he  stood  ruefully  surveying  the 
wreck  of  his  umbrella,  there  penetrated  cool  and  youthful  tones. 


'Tlffy  aunt !"  they  said,  'Vho  is  the  gal  the  old  fossil's  got  with  him?*' 

'^Ssah,  Archibald/'  came  a  sibilant  whisper;  and  then  arose  a  louder 
and  more  decisive,  "Overdressed  I" 

A  drawl  that  was  remarkably  friendly  yet  of  a  length  that  was  really 
abenrd  seemed  to  float  all  over  the  church  in  the  most  delightfully  subtle 

'T"^at  a  pity,"  it  could  be  heard  to  say  clearly  by  all  in  the  vicinity. 
*1t  cannot  be  mended.  They  couldn't  mend  Muffin's  when  she  dropped 
hers  at  the  Hpbson  baby's  christening." 

With  a  naturalness  so  absolute  did  the  Amazon  with  the  daffodil 
colored  mane  stoop  to  assist  her  companion  to  retrieve  the  fragments  of 
the  shattered  umbrella  that  it  seemed  almost  to  the  onlookers  that  she 
had  mistaken  the  central  aisle  of  Saint  Sepulchre's  at  11.15  a.h.  on  the 
second  Sunday  in  May  for  the  middle  of  Ezmoor. 

'Tlffy  aunt  I"  said  tiie  cool  and  youthful  tones,  "the  gal's  tophole." 

"Sash,  Archibald,"  said  the  sibilant  whisper.  "Dear  me,  what  loud 
manners!    Sssh,  Archibald,  don't  speak  during  the  confession." 

Caroline  Crewkeme  and  her  gentlewoman  had  been  kneeling  devoutly 
upon  their  hassocks  for  at  least  two  minutes  by  the  time  Andover  and 
Miss  Perry  arrived  at  the  second  pew  from  the  chancel.  Andover  bore 
in  his  right  hand  a  fragment  of  ivory ;  in  the  left  the  decapitated  body  of 
his  umbrella.  Somehow  his  expression  of  rue  did  not  appear  to  be  quite 
so  sincere  as  the  circumstances  and  the  surrounding  warranted.  In  the 
right  hand  of  Miss  Perry  was  a  prayer  book;  in  the  left  two  fragments 
of  ivory.  The  gravity  of  her  demeanor  was  enough  to  satisfy  the  most 
sensitive  beholder. 

After  the  service,  as  Caroline  Crewkeme's  party  was  moving  out  of 
the  church,  it  was  joined  by  no  less  a  person  than  Qeorge  Betterton.  Like 
Caroline  herself,  he  was  an  inconstant  worshipper  at  Saint  Sepulchre's. 

'*Hallo,  Qeorge,"  said  Andover,  "what  the  dooce  has  brought  you  to 

Andover  was  not  sincere  in  his  inquiry.  He  knew  perfectly  well  what 
had  brought  George  to  church.  The  responsibility  for  his  appearance 
there  was  his  entirely. 

'TThe  weather,  Andover,"  growled  Qeorge  solemnly.  'Tine  momin* 
to  hear  a  good  sermon." 

'T[  don't  approve  of  candles  on  the  altar,"  said  Caroline  Crewkeme  in 
a  voice  that  all  the  world  might  heed.  "Far  too  many  Eoman  practices 
have  crept  into  the  service  lately." 

"You  are  perfectly  right,  Caroline,"  said  Andover.  "That  is  my  own 
opinion.    I  intend  to  lodge  a  complaint  with  the  vicar." 



"How  are  you,  Caroline/^  said  George  with  affability.  "It  is  a  great 
pleasure  to  see  you  at  church." 

"It  is  a  pleasure  you  might  afford  yourself  oftener,"  said  Caroline 

George  cast  an  envious  eye  to  the  front.  Andover  walking  with  the 
lilac  frock  and  the  picture  hat  ten  paces  ahead  of  the  bath  chair  ap- 
peared to  be  coming  in  for  a  good  deal  of  public  attention. 

'rSow  does  it  feel,  Caroline,"  said  George  Betterton,  "to  go  to  church 
with  Grandmother  Dorset  ?" 

"Do  you  mean  my  niece.  Miss  Perry  ?"  said  she  with  a  scant  appear- 
ance of  interest. 

'Terry,  eh?    A  girl  of  Poll/s?" 

'TDon't  you  see  the  likeness?"  said  Caroline  with  a  little  snort. 

*TTo,  I  don't,"  said  George.  "She  resembles  Polly  about  as  much  as 
Andover  resembles  a  Christian." 

'T  agree  with  you,  George,"  said  Caroline  Crewkeme. 

"She  reminds  me  of  what  you  were  in  the  Fifties,  Caroline,"  said 
George,  obviously  trying  to  be  agreeable. 

"A  compliment,"  sneered  its  recipient. 

"Gal's  on  the  big  side,"  said  George,  "a  regular  bouncer,  but  by 
George 1" 

His  grace  paused  on  the  apostrophe  to  his  natal  saint. 

"Carries  her  clothes  like  Grandmother  Dorset,"  said  he. 

"It  is  a  great  responsibility,"  said  Caroline,  "for  a  woman  of  my  age 
to  have  a  creature  like  that  to  look  after." 


"Not  a  penny,"  said  Caroline  bluntly. 

"Pity,"  said  George,  whose  standards  were  frankly  utilitarian.  "Fine 
looking  gal.    Andover  appears  to  think  so." 

By  now  the  space  between  the  bath  chair  and  the  first  pair  in  the 
procession  had  been  increased  to  twenty  paces. 

"Andover,"  called  the  old  lady,  "this  is  not  a  coursing  match." 

Andover  checked  politely  to  await  the  arrival  of  the  powers. 

'TDear  me,"  said  he,  "are  we  walking  quickly  ?  Miss  Araminta  moves 
like  a  deer." 

"Girl,"  said  the  old  lady,  "don't  walk  so  quickly.  You  are  now  in 
Hyde  Park,  not  in  a  lane  in  Devonshire." 

'TTou  come  from  Devon,"  said  George  Betterton,  addressing  Miss 
Perry  with  an  air  of  remarkable  benevolence,  "where  the  cream  comes 
from,  eh?" 

If  I  assert  positively  that  Miss  Perry  made  a  gesture  of  licking  her  lips 


in  a  frankly  feline  manner,  I  lay  myself  open  to  a  scathing  rebuke  from 
the  feminine  section  of  my  readers.  They  will  assnre  me  that  no  true 
lady  would  be  guilty  of  such  an  act  when  walking  in  Hyde  Park  on  a 
Sunday  morning  with  the  highest  branch  of  the  peerage.  I  am  by  no 
means  certain  she  did  not.  At  least  the  gesture  she  made  was  highly 
reminiscent  of  a  feat  of  that  nature. 

"They  promised  to  send  me  some  from  the  parsonage,"  said  Miss 
Perry  wistfully,  'T)ut  it  hasnH  come  yet." 

*'Shame,"  said  his  Grace  with  deep  feeling.  '1*11  go  round  to  Bus- 
zard's  first  thing  to-morrow  and  tell  *em  to  send  you  a  pot." 

"Oh,  thank  you  so  much,"  said  Miss  Perry. 

"Pray  don't  mention  it,  my  dear  Miss — "  said  the  duke  with  a  some- 
what heavy,  yet  by  no  means  unsuccessful  air. 

"My  name  is  Araminta,"  drawled  Miss  Perry  in  her  delightfully  lu- 
dicrous manner,  'Tbut  they  call  me  Qoose  because  I  am  rather  a  Sillay." 

"Charmin*,"  said  his  Qrace.    "Call  you  Qoose,  eh?    Charmin'  name." 

"A  silly  name,  isn't  it?"  said  Miss  Perry. 

"Charmin*,"  said  Qeorge  Betterton,  "charmin*  name.  V\\  call  you 
Goose  myself,  if  you  have  no  objection." 

"Oh,  do  please,"  said  Miss  Perry,  "then  I  shall  know  we  are  friends." 

"Capital,"  said  Qeorge.  "Shall  I  tell  you.  Miss  Qoose,  what  they  call 

"Oh,  do  please,"  said  Miss  Perry. 

'*They  call  me  Qobo,"  said  his  Qrace,  'T)ecau8e  I  gobble  like  a  turkey." 

"What  funl"  cried  Miss  Perry.  "What  a  splendid  name!  I  shall 
write  to  tell  MuflBn  about  it." 

Miss  Perry's  clear  peal  of  laughter  appeared  to  excite  the  curiosity 
of  a  particularly  well-groomed  and  well-gowned  section  of  the  British 
Public  which  occupied  the  chairs  along  the  path.  At  all  events  it  eyed 
the  slow-moving  procession  very  intently. 

'TIere  comes  that  gal,"  said  the  proprietor  of  the  cool  and  youthful 
tones  removing  a  silver  mounted  stick  from  his  mouth.  "She's  got  an- 
other old  sportsman  with  her." 

"Sssh,  Archibald,"  said  the  sibilant  voice,  "that  is  the  Duke  of  Lan- 

"He's  a  lucky  old  fellow,"  said  the  voice  of  youth.  "But  if  I  was  that 
gal,  I  wouldn't  walk  in  the  park  with  a  chap  who  has  a  face  like  an  over- 
ripe tomato  and  who  gobbles  like  a  turkey." 

"Sssh,  Archibald,  dearest  r 

The  procession  was  now  almost  alongside  the  youthful  critic.  Miss 
Perry,  a  positive  queen  challenging  the  superb  May  morning  in  its 



glamour  and  its  freshness,  with  her  chin  tilted  at  a  rather  proud  angle, 
for  she  could  not  help  rejoicing  simply  and  sincerely  in  the  attention  that 
was  paid  to  her  new  frock,  was  flanked  upon  the  one  hand  by  Andover, 
on  the  other  by  George  Betterton.  Ten  paces  in  the  rear  came  the  bath 
chair  with  its  hawklike  occupant.  Beside  it  was  Miss  Burden  with  Ponto 
on  a  lead. 

"I  tell  you  what,  mater,"  said  the  voice  of  youth.  "If  those  two  old 
bucks  are  not  ridin'  jealous  they  will  be  very  soon." 

"Sssh,  my  pet,"  said  mamma,  placing  a  particularly  neat  su^de  over 
the  mouth  of  young  hopeful. 

"If  you  call  me  Goose,"  the  deliciously  ludicrous  drawl  was  borne  on 
the  zephyrs  of  spring,  ^T.  may  call  you  Gobo,  may  I  not?" 

"  'Arry,"  said  a:  bystander  with  a  gesture  of  ferocious  disgust  to  a  com- 
panion who  embellished  a  frock  coat  with  a  pair  of  brown  boots,  "that's 
what  they  call  claws.  It  fairly  makes  you  sick.  That's  what  comes  of 
'aving  a  'ouse  of  Lords." 

The  proprietor  of  the  brown  boots  assented  heartily. 

"If  I  was  a  nob,"  said  he,  "I  would  learn  to  respect  meself." 

The  voice  of  command  came  forth  from  the  bath  chair. 

"George,"  it  said,  ^Tiave  you  noticed  the  tulips  ?" 

"No,"  said  George,  "where  are  they?" 

He  looked  down  at  his  feet  to  see  if  he  had  trodden  upon  them. 

'TBurden,"  said  the  old  lady,  "take  the  doiok  across  the  road  to  see 
the  tulips." 

Somewhat  reluctantly,  it  must  be  confessed,  his  grace  permitted  him- 
self to  be  conducted  by  Ponto  and  the  faithful  gentlewoman  over  the  way 
to  look  at  a  bed  of  flowers. 

"Andover,"  said  Caroline  Crewkeme,  "to-morrow  you  must  take  my 
niece  to  view  the  National  Gallery." 

"That  will  be  too  sweet,"  said  Miss  Perry. 

Andover  bestowed  upon  his  old  friend  and  adversary  a  look  of  wari- 
ness tempered  with  gratitude. 

{To  be  continued) 

QUO  ABEO  65 



The  flood  flows  down,  the  sails  are  spreading. 

The  destined  voyage  must  begin; — 
A  quiet  farewell,  and  then,  nndreading, 

I  enter  in. 

But  far  at  sea — ^*'Sir  Captain,  shelter 

Awaits  us  whither?    What  harl)or  saves?'' — 
Nor  sound  nor  motion  but  the  welter 

Of  heavy  waves. 

^TTet  tell  me — ^there  shall  be  an  ending? 

Some  port  with  hope  of  us  is  lit  ? 
Within  some  haven  we  find  friending  ? 

Ah,  teach  me  it! 

"Captain,   .    .    .   these  seas   ...    are  not  uncharted? 

We  voyage  not  in  blind  amaze, 
Growing  forever  fainter-hearted. 

Unending  days?" 

No  word, — ^until  I  fall  entreating : 

'^If  here  we  wander  evermore, 
If  there  shall  never  be  a  meeting 

Again,  ashore, — 

"Oh  why  the  vessel,  why  the  sailing? — 

Sink  we  to  rest  beneath  the  sea. 
Unsought,  unlonging,  unavailing. 

No  more  to  be?'* 

Silence — that  stings  me  with  the  daring 

To  spring  and  seize  that  Shape  unknown: 
0  Qod — ^^tis  I  with  whom  I'm  faring 

Alone,  alone! 

George  Herbert  Clarke, 




By  thought  transference  I  mean  a  poeBible  commnnication  between 
mind  and  mind,  by  means  other,  than  any  of  the  known  organs  of  sense: 
what  I  may  call  a  sympathetic  connection  between  mind  and  mind; 
using  the  term  mind  in  a  yagne  and  popnlar  sense,  withont  strict  defi- 
nition«  What  do  I  mean  by  sympathetic  connection?  Take  some 
examples : 

A  pair  of  iron  lerers,  one  on  the  gronnd,  the  other  some  hnndred 
yards  away  on  a  post,  are  often  seen  to  be  sympathetically  connected; 
for  when  a  railway  official  hanls  one  of  them  throngh  a  certain  angle, 
the  distant  lerer  or  semaphore  arm  revolves  throngh  a  similar  angle. 
The  disturbance  has  travelled  from  one  to  the  other  through  a  very 
obvious  medium  of  communication — ^viz.,  an  iron  wire  or  rope. 

The  pulling  of  a  knob,  followed  by  the  ringing  of  a  bell,  is  a  similar 
process,  and  the  transmission  of  the  impulse  in  either  of  these  cases  is 
commonly  considered  simple  and  mechanical.  It  is  not  so  simple  as  we 
think;  for  concerning  cohesion  we  are  exceedingly  ignorant,  and  why 
one  end  of  a  stick  moves  when  the  other  end  is  touched  no  one  at  present 
is  clearly  able  to  tell  us. 

A  couple  of  tuning  forks,  or  precisely  similar  musical  instruments, 
isolated  from  each  other  and  from  other  bodies,  suspended  in  air,  let 
us  say.  Sound  one  of  them  and  the  other  responds — ^i.e.,  begins  to  emit 
the  same  note.  This  is  known  in  acoustics  as  sympathetic  resonance; 
and  again  a  disturbance  has  travelled  through  the  medium  from  one 
to  the  other.  The  medium  in  this  case  is  intangible,  but  quite  familiar, 
viz.,  atmospheric  air. 

Next,  suspend  a  couple  of  magnets,  alike  in  all  respects,  pivoted  on 
points  at  some  distance  from  each  other.  Touch  one  of  the  magnets  and 
set  it  swinging,  the  other  begins  to  swing  slightly,  too.  Once  more  a 
disturbance  has  travelled  from  one  to  the  other,  but  the  medium 
in  this  case  is  by  no  means  obvious.  It  is  nothing  solid,  liquid, 
or  gaseous;  that  much  is  certain.  Whether  it  is  material  or  not 
depends  partly  on  what  we  mean  by  material — ^partly  requires  more 


knowledge  before  a  satisfactory  answer  can  be  given.  We  do,  however, 
know  something  of  the  medium  operative  in  this  case,  and  we  call  it 

In  these  cases  the  intensity  of  the  response  varies  with  distance,  and 
at  a  snfficiently  great  distance  the  response  would  be  imperceptible.  This 
may  hastily  be  set  down  as  a  natural  consequence  of  a  physical  medium 
of  communication  and  a  physical  or  mechanical  disturbance ;  but  it  is  not 
quite  so.  A  couple  of  telephones  connected  properly  by  wires  are  sympa- 
tiietic,  and  if  one  is  tapped  the  other  receives  a  shock.  Whatever  is  said 
to  one  is  repeated  by  the  other,  and  distance  is  practically  unimportant; 
at  any  rate,  there  is  no  simple  law  of  inverse  square,  or  any  such  kind 
of  law;  there  is  a  definite  channel  for  the  disturbance  between  the  two. 
The  i:eal  medium  of  communication  is  still  the  ether. 

Take  a  mirror,  pivoted  on  an  axle,  and  capable  of  slight  motion.  At 
a  distance  let  there  be  a  suitable  receiving  instrument,  say  a  drum  of 
photographic  paper  and  a  lens.  If  the  sun  is  shining  on  the  mirror,  and 
everything  properly  arranged,  a  line  may  be  drawn  by  it  on  the  paper 
miles  away,  and  every  tilt  given  to  the  mirror  shall  be  reproduced  as  a 
kink  in  the  line.  This  may  go  on  over  great  distances;  no  wire  or 
anything  else  commonly  called  "material"  connecting  the  two  stations, 
nothing  but  a  beam  of  sunlight,  a  peculiar  state  of  the  ether. 

So  far  we  have  been  dealing  with  mere  physics.  To  poach  a  little 
on  the  ground  of  physiology,  take  two  brains,  as  like  as  possible,  say 
belonging  to  two  similar  animals;  place  them  a  certain  distance  apart, 
with  no  known  obvious  means  of  communication,  and  see  if  there  is  any 
sympathetic  link  between  them.  Apply  a  stimulus  to  one  and  observe 
whether  the  other  in  any  way  responds.  To  make  the  experiment  con- 
veniently, it  is  best  to  avail  one's  self  of  the  entire  animal  and  not  of 
its  brain  alone.  It  is  then  easy  to  stimulate  one  of  the  brains  through 
any  of  the  creature's  peripheral  sense  organs,  and  it  may  be  possible  to 
detect  whatever  effect  is  excited  in  the  other  brain  by  some  motor  im- 
pulse, some  muscular  movement  of  the  appropriate  animal. 

So  far  as  I  know,  the  experiment  has  hitherto  been  principally  tried 
on  man.  This  has  certain  advantages  and  certain  disadvantages.  The 
main  advantage  is  that  the  motor  result  of  intelligent  speech  is  more 
definite  and  instructive  than  mere  pawings  and  gropings  or  twitchings. 
The  main  disadvantage  is  that  the  liability  to  conscious  deception  and 
fraud  becomes  serious,  much  more  serious  than  it  is  with  a  less  cunning 

It  by  no  means  follows  that  the  experiment  will  succeed  with  a  lower 
animal*  because  it  succeeds  with  man;  but  I  am  not  aware  of  its  having 


been  tried  at  present  except  with  man.  A  simple  mode  of  trying  the 
experiment  would  be  to  pinch  or  hurt  one  animal  and  see  if  the  other 
can  feel  any  pain.  If  it  does  feel  anything  it  will  probably  twitch  and 
rub,  or  it  may  become  vocal  with  displeasore. 

There  are  two  varieties  of  the  experiment:  First,  with  some  manifest 
link  or  possible  channel,  as,  for  instance,  where  two  individuals  hold 
hands  through  a  stnffed-np  hole  in  the  wall;  and,  second,  with  no  such 
obvious  medium,  as  when  they  are  at  a  distance  from  one  another. 

Instead  of  simple  pain  in  any  part  of  the  skin,  one  may  stimulate 
the  brain  otherwise  by  exciting  some  special  sense  organ;  for  instance, 
those  of  taste  or  smell.  Apply  nauseous  or  pleasant  materials  to  the 
palate  of  one  animal  and  watch  the  countenance  of  the  other;  or,  if 
human,  get  the  receptive  person  to  describe  the  substance  which,  the 
other  is  tasting. 

These  experiments  have  been  tried  with  human  subjects,  and  they 
have  had  a  fair  measure  of  positive  result.  But  I  am  not  concerned 
with  making  assertions  regarding  facts,  or  expecting  credence  at  present. 
A  serious  amount  of  study  is  necessary  before  one  is  in  a  position  to 
criticise  any  statement  of  fact.  What  I  am  concerned  to  show  is  that 
such  experiments  are  not  on  the  face  of  them  absurd;  that  they  are 
experiments  which  ought  to  be  made;  and  that  any  result  actually 
obtained,  if  definite  and  clear,  ought  to  be  gradually  and  cautiously 
accepted,  whether  it  be  positive  or  negative. 

It  may  be  objected  that  my  mode  of  statement  involves  some 
hypothesis.  The  nerves  of  an  individual.  A,  are  stimulated,  and  the 
muscles  of  another  individual,  B,  respond.  How  do  I  know  that  the 
hrain  of  either  A  or  S  has  anything  to  do  with  it?  Why  may  it  not 
be  an  immediate  connection  between  the  peripheral  sense  organs  them- 
selves? This  is  improbable,  and  we  are  driven  by  probability  to  ascend 
at  least  as  high  as  brain  in  order  to  explain  such  facts  as  I  have  postu- 
lated as  possibly  true.  I  have  not  the  slightest  wish  to  dogmatise,  and 
only  to  save  space  do  I  make  that  much  assumption. 

An  experiment  with  a  sound  or  smell  stimulus  is  manifestly  not  very 
crucial  imless  the  intervening  distance  between  A  and  B  is  excessive. 
But  a  sight  stimulus  can  be  readily  confined  within  narrow  limits  of 
space.  Thus,  a  picture  can  be  held  up  in  front  of  the  eyes  of  A,  and  B 
can  be  asked  if  he  sees  anything;  if  he  does,  to  describe  it  or  to  draw  it. 
If  the  picture  or  diagram  thus  shown  to  A  is  one  that  has  only  just  been 
drawn  by  the  responsible  experimenter  himself;  if  it  is  one  that  has 
no  simple  name  that  can  be  signalled;  if  A  is  not  allowed  to  touch  B 
or  to  move  during  the  course  of  the  experiment,  and  has  never  seen 


the  picture  before;  if,  by  precaution  of  screening,  rays  from  the  picture 
can  be  positively  asserted  never  to  have  entered  the  eyes  of  B;  and  if, 
nevertheless,  B  describes  it,  however  dimly,  and  is  able  to  draw  it,  in 
dead  silence  on  the  part  of  all  concerned,  then  the  experiment  would  be 
a  good  one. 

But  not  yet  would  it  be  conclusive.  We  must  consider  who  A  and  B 
are.  If  they  are  a  pair  of  persons  who  go  about  together  and  make 
money  out  of  the  exhibition;  if  they  are  in  any  sense  a  brace  of  pro- 
fessionals accustomed  to  act  together,  nothing  is  solidly  proved  by  such 
an  experiment,  for  cunning  is  by  no  means  an  improbable  hypothesis. 
Cunning  takes  such  a  variety  of  forms  it  is  best  to  eliminate  it  alto- 
gether. That  can  be  done  by  using  unassorted  individuals  in  unaccus- 
tomed rooms.  True,  the  experiment  may  thus  become  much  more 
diflBcult,  if  not  quite  impossible.  Two  entirely  different  tuning  forks 
will  not  respond.  Two  strangers  are  not  usually  sympathetic,  in  the 
ordinary  sense  of  the  word;  perhaps  we  ought  not  to  expect  a  response. 
Nevertheless,  the  experiment  must  be  made,  and  if  £  is  found  able  to 
respond,  not  only  to  41,  but  also  to  42,  43,  and  other  complete 
strangers,  under  tiie  conditions  above  stated,  then  the  experiment  may  be 
r^arded  as  satisfactory.  I  am  prepared  to  assert  that  such  satisfactory 
experiments  have  been  made. 

Whenever  I  use  the  term  thought-transference,  I  never  mean  any- 
thing like  public  performances,  whether  by  genuine  persons  or  impostors. 
The  human  race  is  so  constituted  that  such  performances  have  their 
value — ^they  incite  others  to  try  experiments;  but  in  themselves,  and 
scientifically,  public  performances  are  useless,  and  often  tend  to  obscure 
a  phenomenon  by  covering  it  with  semi-legitimate  contempt. 

Suppose  A  and  B  left  alone,  and  not  stimulated  by  any  third  person, 
C;  it  is  quite  possible  for  A  to  combine  the  functions  of  G  with  his  own 
functions  and  to  stimulate  himself.  He  may  look  at  a  picture  or  a  play- 
ing card,  or  he  may  taste  a  substance,  or  he  may,  if  he  can,  simply  think 
of  a  ntmiber,  or  a  scene,  or  an  event,  and,  so  to  speak,  keep  it  vividly  in 
his  mind.  It  may  happen  that  B  will  be  able  to  describe  the  scene  of 
which  A  is  thinking,  sometimes  almost  correctly,  sometimes  with  a  large 
admixture  of  error,  or  at  least  of  dimness. 

To  go  a  step  further.  Let  A  and  B  be  not  thinking  of  experiment- 
ing at  all.  Let  them  be  at  a  distance  from  one  another,  and  going  about 
their  ordinary  vocations,  including  somnolence  and  other  passive  as  well 
as  active  occupations  of  the  twenty-four  hours.  Let  us,  however,  not 
suppose  them  strangers,  but  relatives  or  intimate  friends;  still  better, 
perhaps  (I  make  no  assertions  on  any  of  these  points),  twin  brothers. 



Let  something  vividly  excite  A;  let  him  fall  down  a  cliff,  or  be  run  over 
by  a  horse,  or  fall  into  a  river;  or  let  him  be  taken  violently  ill,  or  be 
subject  to  some  strong  emotion;  or  let  him  be  at  the  point  of  death. 

Is  it  not  conceivable  that  if  any  such  sympathetic  connection  between 
individuals  as  I  have  been  postulating  exists,  that  a  violent  stimulus, 
such  as  we  have  supposed  A  to  receive,  may  be  able  to  induce  in  B,  even 
though  inattentive  and  otherwise  occupied,  some  dim  echo,  reverberation, 
response,  and  cause  him  ta  be  more  or  less  aware  that  A  is  suffering  or 
perturbed?  If  B  is  busy,  self-absorbed,  actively  engaged,  he  may  notice 
nothing.  If  he  happen  to  be  quiescent,  vacant,  moody,  or  half  or  whole 
asleep,  he  may  realize  and  be  conscious  of  something.  He  may  perhaps 
only  feel  a  vague  sense  of  depression  in  general;  or  he  may  feel  the  de- 
pression and  associate  it  definitely  with  A;  or  he  may  be  more  distinctly 
aware  of  what  is  happening,  and  call  out  that  A  had  a  fall,  or  an  ac- 
cident, or  is  being  drowned,  or  is  ill;  or  he  may  have  a  specially  vivid 
dream  which  will  trouble  him  long  after  he  wakes;  or  he  may  think  he 
hears  A' 8  voice;  or  lastly,  he  may  conjure  up  an  image  of  A  so  vividly 
before  his  ^'mind's  eye''  that  he  may  be  able  to  persuade  himself  and 
others  that  he  has  seen  his  apparition — sometimes  a  mere  purposeless  ap- 
parition, sometimes  in  a  setting  of  a  sort  of  vision  or  picture  not  unlike 
what  is  at  the  time  elsewhere  really  happening. 

I  confess  that  the  weight  of  testimony  is  sufficient  to  satisfy  my  own 
mind  that  such  things  do  undoubtedly  occur;  that  distance  is  no  barrier 
to  the  sympathetic  communication  of  intelligence  in  some  way  of  which 
we  are  at  present  ignorant;  that  the  danger  or  death  of  a  distant  child, 
or  brother,  or  husband  may  be  signalled  to  the  heart  of  a  human  being 
fitted  to  be  the  recipient  of  such  a  message.  We  call  the  process  telepathy — 
sympathy  at  a  dis^tancc;  we  do  not  understand  it.  What  is  the  medium 
of  communication?  Is  it  through  the  air,  like  the  timing  forks;  or 
through  the  ether,  like  the  magnets ;  or  is  it  something  non-physical,  and 
exclusively  psychical  ?  No  one  can  as  yet  tell.  We  must  know  far  more 
about  it  before  we  can  answer  that  question,  perhaps  before  we  can  be 
sure  whether  the  question  has  a  meaning  or  not. 

Meanwhile,  plainly,  telepathy  strikes  us  as  a  spontaneous  occurrence 
of  that  intercommunication  between  mind  and  mind  (or  brain  and 
brain)  which,  for  want  of  a  better  term,  we  at  present  siyle  thought- 
transference.  We  may  be  wrong  in  thus  regarding  it,  but  as  scientific 
men  that  is  how  we  are  bound  to  regard  it  unless  forced  by  the  weight  of 
evidence  into  some  apparently  less  tenable  position.  The  opinion  is 
strengthened  by  the  fact  that  the  spontaneously  occurring  impressions 
can  be  artificially  and  experimentally  imitated  by  conscious  attempts  to 


produce  them.  Individuals  are  known  who  can  by  an  effort  of  will  excite 
the  brain  of  another  person  at  a  moderate  distance^  say  another  part  of 
the  same  town,  possibly  further — ^I  am  not  sure  of  that — so  that  these 
second  persons  imagine  that  they  hear  him  call  or  they  see  his  face. 
These  are  called  experimental  apparitions  and  appear  well  established. 

What  is  the  meaning  of  this  unexpected  sympathetic  resonance,  this 
syntonic  reverberation  between  minds?  Is  it  conceivably  the  germ  of  a 
new  sense,  something  which  the  human  race  is,  in  the  progress  of  evolu- 
tion, destined  to  receive  in  fuller  measure  ?  or  is  it  the  relic  of  a  faculty 
possessed  by  our  animal  ancestry  before  speech  was? 

I  have  no  wish  to  intrude  speculations,  and  I  cannot  answer  these 
questions  except  in  terms  of  speculation.  I  wish  to  assert  nothing  but 
what  I  believe  to  be  solid  and  verifiable  facts.  Suppose  I  discover  a  piece 
of  paper  with  scrawls  on  it.  I  may  guess  they  are  intended  for  some- 
thing, but  as  they  are  to  me  illegible  hieroglyphics,  I  carry  it  to  one  per- 
son after  another  and  get  them  to  look  at  it,  but  it  excites  in  them  no 
response.  They  perceive  little  more  than  a  savage  would  perceive.  But 
not  so  with  all  of  them.  One  man  to  whom  I  show  it  has  the  perceptive 
faculiy,  so  to  speak;  he  becomes  wildly  excited;  he  begins  to  sing;  he 
rushes  for  an  arrangement  of  wood  and  catgut,  and  fills  the  air  with 
vibrations.  Even  the  others  can  now  faintly  appreciate  the  meaning. 
The  piece  of  paper  was  a  lost  manuscript  of  Beethoven. 

What  sort  of  thought  transference  is  that?  Where  is  the  A  to  whom 
the  ideas  originally  occurred?  He  has  been  dead  for  years;  his  thought 
has  been  fossilized,  lain  dormant  in  matter,  but  it  only  wanted  a  sym- 
pathetic and  educated  mind  to  perceive  it,  to  revive  it,  and  to  make  it 
the  property  of  the  world.  Idea,  I  call  it;  but  it  is  not  only  idea:  there 
may  be  a  world  of  emotion  stored  in  matter,  ready  to  be  released  as  by  a 
detent.  Action  of  mind  on  matter,  reaction  of  matter  on  mind — ^are 
these  things,  after  all,  commonplaces,  too  ? 

If  so,  what  is  not  possible? 

Here  is  a  room  where  a  tragedy  occurred,  where  the  human  spirit  was 
strung  to  intensest  anguish.  Is  there  any  trace  of  that  agony  present 
still  and  able  to  be  appreciated  by  an  attuned  and  receptive  mind?  I 
assert  nothing,  except  that  it  is  not  inconceivable.  I  do  not  regard  the 
evidence  for  these  things  as  so  conclusive  as  for  some  of  the  other 
phenomena  I  have  dealt  with,  but  the  belief  in  such  facts  may  be  forced 
upon  us,  and  the  garment  of  superstition  is  already  dropping  from  them. 
They  will  take  their  place  if  true,  in  an  orderly  universe,  along  with 
other  not  wholly  unallied  and  already  well-known  occurrences. 

Is  it  credible  that  a  relic,  a  lock  of  hair,  an  old  garment,  retains  any 



indication  of  a  departed,  retains  any  portion  of  his  personality  ?  Does  not 
an  old  letter?  Does  not  a  painting?  An ''old  master^  we  call  it  There 
may  be  much  of  the  personality  of  the  old  master  ihns  preserved.  Is  not 
the  emotion  felt  on  looking  at  it  a  kind  of  thought-transference  from  the 
departed?  A  painting  differs  from  a  piece  of  music  in  that  it  is  con- 
stantly incarnate,  as  it  were.  It  is  there  for  all  to  see,  for  some  to  under- 
stand. The  music  requires  incarnation,  it  can  be  performed,  as  we  say, 
and  then  it  can  be  af^redated.  But  in  no  case  without  the  attuned  and 
thoughtful  mind;  and  so  these  things  are,  in  a  sense,  thought-transfer* 
ence,  but  deferred  thought-transference.  They  may  be  likened  to 
telepathy,  not  only  reaching  over  tracts  of  space,  but  deferred  through 
epochs  of  time. 

Think  over  these  great  things  and  be  not  unduly  sceptical  about  little 
things.  An  attitude  of  keen  and  critical  inquiry  must  continually  be 
maintained,  and  in  that  sense  any  amount  of  scepticism  is  not  only 
legitimate  but  necessary.  The  kind  of  scepticism  I  deprecate  is  not  that 
which  sternly  questions  and  rigorously  probes,  it  is  rather  that  which 
confidently  asserts  and  dogmatically  denies.  But  this  kind  is  not  true 
scepticism,  in  the  proper  sense  of  the  word,  for  it  deters  inquiry  and  for- 
bids inspection.  It  is  too  positive  concerning  the  boundaries  of  knowl- 
edge and  the  line  where  superstition  begins. 

Phantasms  and  dreams,  and  ghosts,  crystal-gazing,  premonitions,  and 
clairvoyance:  the  region  of  superstition;  yes,  but  possibly  also  the  r^on 
of  fact.  As  taxes  on  credulity  they  are  trifles  compared  to  the  things 
we  are  already  familiar  with— only  too  familiar  with — stupidly  and 
inanely  inappreciative  of. 

Let  superstition  envelop  the  whole  of  our  knowledge  and  existence 
if  it  envelop  any,  but  let  it  be  called  by  a  less  ignoble  name. 



It  was  with  rather  more  than  a  dash  of  scepticism  that  I  read  the 
.  letter  from  a  friend,  who  was  delving  in  the  John  Carter  Brown  library 
in  Providence,  announcing  that  he  had  discovered  nuggets  of  pure  gold 
in  a  volume  of  American  verse  by  Frederick  Goddard  Tuekerman,,a  poet 
whose  work  finds  no  place  in  Mr.  Stedman's  anthology,  and  who  is  prob- 
ably unknown  to  most  of  the  readers  of  The  Fobuh^  as  he  was  to  me. 
I  sent  an  order  for  his  book,  however,  to  a  dealer  in  Boston,  and  then 
forgot  the  incident. 


A  year  later  the  book  came,  evidently  after  long  search.  It  was  the 
second  edition,  published  in  Boston  by  Tieknor  and  Fields  in  1864, 
bonnd  in  the  familiar  brown  of  that  famous  house.  The  first  edition  was 
printed  in  1860.  My  copy  bore  this  inscription  on  the  fly  leaf:  "Mrs. 
H.  B.  Stowe,  with  the  compliments  of  the  author."  I  looked  within  for 
marginal  notes,  but  if  Mrs.  Stowe  read,  she  had  made  no  comments.  The 
only  inserts  were  newspaper  clippings  about  the  Beecher  family  I  The 
gold  nuggets  that  my  friend  promised,  however,  were  there,  and  as  I 
read  I  wondered  why  poetry  such  as  this  had  found  no  tiniest  place  in 
an  American  anthology,  why  this  introspective,  withdrawing,  contempla- 
tive man,  for  all  the  metrical  faults  and  the  slender  bulk  of  his  verse, 
was  so  absolutely  unknown  in  the  history  of  American  letters.  It  did  not 
seem  just  or  right.  I  should  like  if  possible  to  shed  a  tiny  ray  back  upon 
his  memory.  His  was  a  rare,  if  imperfect  poetic  faculty;  and  certain 
portions  of  his  verse  are  worthy  of  perpetuation. 

About  his  history  I  have  been  able  to  learn  little.  He  was  born  in  1821, 
of  a  distinguished  Boston  family.  Joseph  Tuckerman,  the  noted  phil- 
anthropist and  Unitarian  clergyman,  was  his  uncle.  His  older  brother 
was  Edward  Tuckerman,  the  famous  professor  of  botany  at  Amherst  Col- 
lege from  1858  to  1886.  And  one  of  his  cousins  was  Henry  T.  Tucker- 
man, once  prominent  as  a  critic  and  poet.  He  entered  the  class  of  1841 
at  Harvard,  but  left  at  the  end  of  his  Freshman  year.  Thomas  Went- 
worth  Higginson,  a  classmate,  writes  to  me :  *T[  never  knew  why  he  left 
my  class,  but  perhaps  from  such  family  obstacles  as  his  older  brother  met. 
I  remember  he  came  back  among  us  at  some  kind  of  gathering  during  our 
college  course  and  seemed  very  cordial  and  friendly  to  all.  I  remember 
him  as  a  refined  and  gentlemanly  fellow,  but  did  not  then  know  him  as 
a  poet.  I  see  him  put  down  as  a  lawyer  in  Boston  [in  Adams*  Diction- 
ary of  American  Authors],  but  have  no  recollection  of  that  fact.  His 
name  appears  in  the  list  of  the  Law  School,  from  1840  to  1842,  and  he 
took  his  degree  as  LL.B.'*  His  class  secretary,  the  Hon.  John  S.  Keyes, 
of  Concord,  Mass.,  has  not  been  able  to  supply  me  with  further  informa- 
tion. He  published  but  the  one  volume  of  poetry,  when  he  was  thirty- 
nine,  and  nothing  else.  That  poetry  shows  him  as  passing  much  of  his 
time  in  the  country,  apparently  in  Western  Massachusetts.  He  could 
hardly  have  taken  an  active  part  in  the  life  of  Boston — ^then  a  much 
smaller  city — or  Colonel  Higginson,  himself  in  the  thick  of  everything, 
would  have  met  him.    Evidently  his  was  the  life  of  a  recluse. 

But  perhaps  the  man  is  suflBciently  self-revealing  in  his  verse.  At  a 
period  when  the  country  was  stirring  to  ]U  flopths  with  the  great  issues 
that  precipitated  the  Civil  War,  he  wrote  of  hare-bells  in  the  woods  and 


64  ^THE  FORUM 

the  slow,  quiet  march  of  the  seasons.  At  a  time  when  Patmore's  The 
Angel  in  the  Hottse  was  oi^e  of  the  six  best  sellers  (fancy  a  book  of  verse 
ever  having  been  a  best  seller!)  he  troubled  little  with  narrative  poetry. 
At  a  period  when  American  poetry  was  only  too  full  alike  of  moral 
platitudes  and  flowers  of  speech,  his  poetry  was  filled  with  the  flowers  of 
the  field.  A  minute  and  faithful  and  tender  rendering  of  the  New 
England  landscape  about  him  was  his  interest — ^that,  and  his  own  moods. 
There  may  well  be  a  trace  of  Thoreau  and  the  Transcendentalists  in  his 
work.  But  mostly,  even  in  its  faults,  it  is  but  himself — ^a  shy,  thoughtful, 
imagiuative  man,  withdrawing  from  the  world,  not  so  much  scornful  of 
its  ways  as  little  caring  for  them  or  imderstanding  them.  Tjacking  the 
philosophical  depth  and  the  sense  of  form  and  style  which  distinguished 
Edward  Eowland  Sill,  he  yet  had  Sill's  gift  of  pensive  introspection,  with 
a  love  of  Nature  for  its  own  sake  quite  his  own.  His  famous  brother 
could  not  handle  plants  and  flowers  more  lovingly  than  he.  His  poetry 
deals  almost  exclusively  with  the  Nature  about  him  and  his  own  moods 
in  the  face  of  it,  and  with  the  small  but  poignant  ripples  of  his  personal 

His  favorite  medium  is  the  sonnet;  and  yet  there  is  not  a  per- 
fectly formed  sonnet  in  his  volume.  He  either  scorned  or  did  not 
know  the  rules  of  the  sonnet  form.  The  sonnet  mood,  however,  he 
knew  veiy  well,  and  could  create  with  a  kind  of  passionate  dignity 
fourteen  line  stanzas  that  make  the  poetry  of  his  cousin  Henry,  included 
in  every  anthology,  look  trivial  and  commonplace.  Here  are  two,  the 
one  flowing  out  of  the  other,  as  was  his  unfortunate  trick,  that  show 
him  in  one  of  his  frequent  moods  of  religious  awe,  and  show,  too, 
the  flashes  of  pure  gold  in  his  imagination,  as  in  the  first  three  lines 
of  the  second  sonnet: 

The  starry  flower,  the  flower-like  stars  that  fade 

And  brighten  with  the  daylight  and  the  dark — 

The  bluet  in  the  green  I  faintly  mark, 

The  glimmering  crags  with  laurel  overlaid, 

Even  to  the  Lord  of  light,  the  Lamp  of  shade. 

Shine  one  to  me — ^the  least,  still  glorious  made 

As  crowned  moon  or  heaven's  great  hierarch. 

And  so,  dim  grassy  flower  and  night- lit  spark, 

Still  move  me  on  and  upward  for  the  True; 

Seeking  through  change,  growth,  death,  in  new  and  old. 

The  full  in  few,  the  statelier  in  the  less. 

With  patient  pain ;  always  remembering  this — 

His  hand,  who  touched  the  sod  with  showers  of  gold, 

Stippled  Orion  on  the  midnight  blue. 


And  BO,  as  this  great  sphere  (now  turning  slow 

Up  to  the  light  from  that  abyss  of  stars. 

Now  wheeling  into  gloom  through  simset  bars) 

With  all  its  elements  of  form  and  flow. 

And  life  in  life,  where  crown'd  yet  blind  must  go 

The  sensible  king — is  but  a  Unity 

Compressed  of  motes  impossible  to  know; 

Which  worldlike  yet  in  deep  analogy 

Have  distance,  march,  dimension  and  degree; 

So  the  round  earth — ^which  we  the  world  do  call — 

Is  but  a  grain  in  that  which  mightiest  swells. 

Whereof  the  stars  of  light  are  particles. 

As  ultimate  atoms  of  one  infinite  Ball 

On  which  God  moves,  and  treads  beneath  his  feet  the  All ! 

Turning  the  page  we  come  on  a  poem  called  "The  Question/'  '^ow 
shall  I  array  my  love?''  he  asks.  He  ranges  the  earth  for  rare  robes  and 
jewels,  but,  because  his  love  is  a  simple  New  England  girl,  he  rejects 
them  all  as  inappropriate,  even  as  unworthy,  and  closing  sings : 

The  riyer- riches  of  the  sphere. 
All  that  the  dark  sea-bottoms  bear, 
The  wide  earth's  green  convexity, 
The  inexhaustible  blue  sky, 
Hold  not  a  prize  so  proud,  so  high. 
That  it  could  grace  her,  gay  or  grand. 
By  garden-gale  and  rose-breath  fanned; 
Or  as  to-night  I  saw  her  stand, 
Lovely  in  the  meadow  land. 
With  a  clover  in  her  hand. 

It  would  be  hard  to  excel  the  magic  simplicity  of  these  lines.  Surely, 
here  again  is  gold. 

Tuckerman's  powers  of  observation  of  natural  effects  might  be  illus- 
trated by  a  hundred  examples.  Perhaps  these  opening  lines  to  ''The 
School  Girl,"  a  New  England  idyll,  will  serve  as  well  as  any : 

The  wind,  that  all  the  day  had  scarcely  clashed 

The  cornstalks  in  the  sun,  as  the  sun  sank 

Came  rolling  up  the  valley  like  a  wave. 

Broke  in  the  beech  and  washed  among  the  pine, 

And  ebbed  to  silence;  but  at  the  welcome  sound — 

Leaving  my  lazy  book  without  a  mark. 

In  hopes  to  lose  among  the  blowing  fern 

The  dregs  of  headache  brought  from  yesternight. 

And  stepping  lightly  lest  the  children  hear — 

I  from  a  side  door  slipped,  and  crossed  a  lane 

With  bitter  Mayweed  lined,  and  over  a  field 



Snapping  with  grasshoppers,  untO  I  came 
Down  where  an  interrupted  brook  held  way 
Among  the  alders.    There,  on  a  strutting  branch 
Leaving  my  straw,  I  sat  and  wooed  the  west. 
With  breast  and  palms  outspread  as  to  a  fire. 

But  these  powers  of  obseryation  are  again  illustrated  in  '^argites,'' 
a  lyric  of  thirteen  stanzas  that  may  well  stand  to  the  reader  of  to-day  as 
the  essence  of  this  forgotten  poef  s  gif t^  and  of  his  life.    The  poem  begins : 

I  neither  plough  the  field  nor  sow. 
Nor  hold  the  spade,  nor  drive  the  cart. 

Nor  spread  the  heap,  nor  hiU  nor  hoe. 
To  keep  the  barren  land  in  heart. 

After  four  stanzas  in  similar  strain  the  reader  comes  upon  this  exquisite 
bit  of  landscape  paintings  as  simple^  as  humble^  yet  as  instinct  with  sug- 
gestion as  any  in  the  works  of  Tuckerman's  unf orgotten  contemporaries : 

But,  leaning  from  my  window,  chief 

1  mark  the  Autumn's  mellow  signs — 
The  frosty  air,  the  yellow  leaf. 

The  ladder  leaning  on  the  vines. 

The  maple  from  his  brood  of  boughs 

Puts  northward  out  a  reddening  limb; 
The  mist  draws  faintly  round  the  house; 

And  all  the  headland  heights  are  dim. 

Then  the  poem  continues  to  its  close: 

And  yet  it  is  the  same  as  when 

I  looked  across  the  chestnut  woods, 
And  saw  the  barren  landscape  then 

O'er  the  red  bunch  of  lilac  buds; 

And  all  things  seem  the  same.    Tis  one 

To  lie  in  sleep,  or  toil  as  they 
Who  rise  beforetime  with  the  sun, 

And  so  keep  footstep  with  their  day; 

For  aimless  oaf  and  wiser  fool 
Work  to  one  end  by  differing  deeds; — 

The  weeds  rot  in  the  standing  pool ; 
The  water  stagnates  in  the  weeds; 

And  all  by  waste  or  warfare  falls. 

Has  gone  to  wreck,  or  crumbling  goes, 
Since  Nero  planned  his  golden  walls. 

Or  the  Cham  Cublai  built  his  house. 


But  naught  I  reck  of  change  and  fray; 

Watching  the  clouds  at  morning  driven. 
The  still  declension  of  the  day; 

And,  when  the  moon  is  just  in  heaven, 

I  walk,  unknowing  where  or  why; 

Or  idly  lie  beneath  the  pine. 
And  bite  the  dry  brown  threads,  and  lie 

And  think  a  life  well  lost  is  mine. 

*'A  life  well  lostl"  The  phrase  is  pathetically  revealing — ^and  pro- 
phetic. Would  it  have  been  lost  if  Tnckerman  had  possessed  a  sense  of 
stylCy  or  a  care  for  style,  so  that  in  this  poem  just  quoted,  for  example, 
the  better  stanzas  had  not  been  followed  by  the  crudities  of  the  rest?  He 
was  a  poet  by  instinct,  but  not  by  trade.  Too  often  his  verse  is  valuable 
as  the  revelation  of  a  personality  to  the  curious  seeker,  not  as  music  to 
the  many.  There  is  something  precious,  almost  amateur,  about  it.  There 
is  a  delicate  Pharisaism  in  this  sonnet,  for  instance,  that  may  conceiv- 
ably have  grated  on  the  sterner  consciences  of  his  neighbors : 

"That  boy,"  the  fanner  said,  with  hazel  wand 
Pointing  him  out,  half  by  the  haycock  hid, 
"Though  bare  sixteen  can  work  at  what  he's  bid 
From  sun  till  set,  to  cradle,  reap  or  band." 
I  heard  the  words,  but  scarce  could  understand 
Whether  they  claimed  a  smile  or  gave  me  pain; 
Or  was  it  aught  to  me,  in  that  green  lane. 
That  all  day  yesterday,  the  briers  amid. 
He  held  the  plough  against  the  jarring  land 
Steady,  or  kept  his  place  among  the  mowers; 
Whilst  other  lingers,  sweeping  for  the  flowers. 
Brought  from  the  forest  back  a  crimson  stain  T 
Was  it  a  thorn  that  touched  the  flesh  T  or  did 
The  poke-berry  spit  purple  on  my  hand  T 

And  yet  how  far  he  was  in  soul  from  mere  Pharisaism,  how  much  this 
shy  searcher  for  poke-berries  and  lover  of  the  field  flowers  was  troubled 
by  the  world-old  problems,  the  two  sonnet  sequences  at  the  end  of  his 
book  attest.  The  first  sequence  closes  with  several  sonnets  depicting 
the  discords  in  Nature, 

For  Nature  daily  through  her  grand  design 
Breathes  contradiction  when  she  seems  most  clear. 

The  final  sonnet — ^like  all  the  rest  departing,  after  the  first  four  lines, 
completely  from  the  established  rhyme  scheme — ^is  surely  none  the  less 


toudied  with  fire  from  the  hi^  altar;  surely  it  flashes  hints  of  an 
imagination  that  missed  by  ever  so  litUe  poetic  greatness. 

Not  the  round  natoral  world,  not  the  deep  mind. 
The  reconcilement  holds:   the  blue  abyss 
Collects  it  not;  our  arrows  sink  amiss; 
And  but  in  Him  may  we  our  import  find. 
The  agony  to  know,  the  grief,  the  bliss 
Of  toil,  is  Tain  and  vain!  clots  of  the  sod 
Gathered  in  heat  snd  haste,  and  flung  behind. 
To  blind  ourselves  and  others — what  but  this. 
Still  grasping  dust  and  sowing  toward  the  wind? 
No  more  thy  meaning  seek,  thine  anguish  plead; 
But  leaving  straining  thought  and  stammering  word 
Across  the  barren  azure  pass  to  God; 
Shooting  the  void  in  silence,  like  a  bird — 
A  bird  that  shuts  his  wings  for  better  speed! 

The  sequence  which  closes  the  book  is  curiously  intimate,  almost  it 
is  a  diary  of  the  poef  s  moods  of  grief  for  the  loss  of  the  woman  he  loved. 
In  an  earlier  lyric  he  describes  a  trip  into  the  woods  in  April,  where  he 
finds  Mayflowers  pushing  up  through  the  mouldy  presaging  summer.  The 
poem  closes  with  these  stanzas: 

Since  I  found  that  buried  garland. 

Fair  and  fresh  and  rosy-cold, 
All  has  been  its  life  for^hadowed — 

Woods  in  umbrage  banked  and  rolled. 

Meadows  brimmed  with  clover,  ridges 

Where  through  fern  the  lupine  crowds. 
And  upon  the  sandstone  led^ges 

Laurel  heaped  like  sunset  clouds: 

But  the  wayward  mind,  regretful. 

Wanders  through  that  April  day. 
And,  by  fields  forever  faded, 

Seems  to  tread  a  vanished  way. 

Till  it  finds  those  low  lights  fiushing 
Through  the  pine  trees*  mouldered  spines, 

And  hears  still  the  mournful  gushing 
Of  the  north  wind  in  the  pines. 

A  mind  thus  attimed  to  delicate  melancholy  could  not  but  envisage 
a  grief  vastly  deeper,  more  real,  to  linger  over  it  and  to  make  of  it  some- 
thing piercing  and  beautiful. 


Again,  again,  ye  part  in  stormy  grief 

From  these  bare  hills  and  bowers  so  built  in  vain, 

And  lips  and  hearts  that  will  not  move  again — 

Pathetic  Autumn  and  the  writhled  leaf; 

Dropping  away  in  tears  with  warning  brief : 

The  wind  reiterates  a  wailful  strain. 

And  on  the  skylight  beats  the  restless  rain, 

And  vapour  drowns  the  mountain,  base  and  brow. 

I  watch  the  wet  black  roofs  through  mist  defined, 

I  watch  the  raindrops  strung  along  the  blind, 

And  my  heart  bleeds,  and  all  my  senses  bow 

In  grief;  as  one  mild  face,  with  suffering  lined. 

Comes  up  in  thought:  oh,  wildly,  rain  and  wind, 

Mourn  on !  she  sleeps,  nor  heeds  your  angry  sorrow  now. 

Here  is  a  poem  worthy  of  a  place  in  Mr.  Stedman's  or  any  other 
anthology  of  American  poetry.  It  violates  the  metrical  rule  of  the  son- 
net; but  do  not  call  it  a  sonnet^  then^  call  it  simply  a  stanza.  Surely 
inspiration  outweighs  mere  form.  The  bit  of  observation  of  the  raindrops 
"strung  along  the  blind*'  gives  it  a  pictorial  vividness  not  unlike  Bossetti^ 
and  '*the  wet  black  roofs  through  mists  defined/'  also.  It  has  passion, 
sincerity;  it  stabs.  Or,  again,  take  this  sonnet,  even  more  irregular  in 
form,  but  hardly  less  passionately  sincere,  and  in  its  closing  couplet 
truly  and  splendidly  imaginative : 

My  Anna !  when  for  thee  my  head  was  bowed, 
The  circle  of  the  world,  sky,  mountain,  main, 
I>rew  inward  to  one  spot;  and  now  again 
Wide  Nature  narrows  to  the  shell  and  shroud. 
In  the  late  dawn  they  will  not  be  forgot. 
And  evenings  early  dark;  when  the  low  rain 
Begins  at  nightfall,  though  no  tempests  rave, 
I  know  the  rain  is  falling  on  her  grave ; 
The  morning  views  it,  and  the  sunset  cloud 
Points  with  a  finger  to  that  lonely  spot; 
The  crops,  that  up  the  valley  rolling  go. 
Ever  toward  her  slumber  bow  and  blow! 
I  look  on  the  sweeping  com  and  the  surging  rye. 
And  with  every  gust  of  wind  my  heart  goes  by! 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that  the  predominant  note  of  Tuckerman's 
one  slender  volume  is  elegiac ;  rather  is  it  a  note  of  tender,  wistful  con- 
templation of  the  quiet  New  England  countryside,  a  contemplation  at 
once  of  its  pictorial  charm  and  of  its  meanings  for  the  soul  of  Man.  But, 
for  a  poet  so  introspective,  personal  griefs  were  his  profoundest  passion. 
Possibly  I  cannot  do  better  in  closing  than  to  quote  one  more  of  his 




elegiac  poems.  Unlike  all  his  other  lyrics,  it  makes  little  pretence  at 
keeping  within  metrical  limitations,  or  at  anj  rate  limitations  of  rhyme. 
For  that  reason,  perhaps,  it  is  all  the  more  characteristic.  If  Frederick 
Goddard  Tnckerman  is  a  forgotten  poet  it  is  his  lack  of  a  sostained  and 
well-wronght  style  which  has  made  him  so,  no  less  tiian  his  withdrawal 
from  the  ways  of  men  into  the  still  fields  behind  his  home,  than  the  trail, 
slender  nature  of  his  mnse.  Yet  one  wonders  why  this  lyric,  at  least, 
has  been  so  utterly  obliterated  by  time^  the  more  when  one  reads  the 
scores  by  his  contemporaries  which  have  been  preserved  in  the  anthologies. 
Where  will  you  find  one  of  theirs,  after  all,  with  quite  the  simple,  sting- 
ing grief  of  this,  though  it  trip  to  rhyme  ever  so  sweetly? — 

I  took  from  its  g^aas  a  flower. 
To  lay  on  her  graTe  with  doU,  accosiiig  tears; 
Bnt  the  heart  of  the  flower  fell  out  as  I  handled  the  rose. 
And  my  heart  is  shattered  and  soon  will  wither  away. 

I  watch  the  changing  shadows. 
And  the  patch  of  windy  sunshine  upon  the  hiU, 
And  the  long  hlue  woods ;  and  a  grief  no  tongue  can  tell 
Breaks  at  my  eyes  in  drops  of  bitter  rain. 

I  hear  her  baby  wagon. 
And  the  little  wheels  go  over  my  heart: 
Oh!  when  will  the  light  of  the  darkened  house  return? 
Oh!  when  will  she  come  who  made  the  hills  so  fair? 

I  sit  by  the  parlor  window, 
\\1ien  twilight  deepens  and  winds  grow  cold  without; 
But  the  blessed  feet  no  more  come  up  the  walk. 
And  my  little  girl  and  I  cry  softly  together. 

Walter  Prichard  Eaton. 


BY  P.  O.  AONEW 

Singe  the  intellectual  renaissance  brought  about  by  the  general 
acceptance  of  evolutionary  theory,  and  the  spread  of  its  doctrines  to  a 
dominant  place  in  every  department  of  thought,  there  has  been  very 
little  progress  in  the  regular  schools  of  metaphysics.  And  it  is  now 
agreed  by  friends  and  foes  alike  that  at  the  present  time  there  is  but  one 
live,  really  live  and  growing,  subject  in  the  whole  field  of  philosophy. 
That  subject  is  pragmatism. 


As  it  daims  to  be  merely  a  logical  development  of  the  Bcientific 
method^  it  is  doubtless  best  to  approach  it  from  that  standpoint. 

To  the  lay  mind  it  is  very  disconcerting  to  see  the  kaleidoscopic 
changes  that  are  continually  taking  place  in  all  branches  of  science.  We 
have  no  sooner  accepted  the  nebular  hypothesis  as  one  of  the  ultimate 
laws  of  nature  than  the  geologist  on  the  one  hand  and  the  mathematician 
on  the  other  tell  us  that  it  will  have  to  be  abandoned.  One  generation 
of  naturalists  delights  us  by  teaching  us  to  believe  that  every  coral 
island  is  built  from  the  bottom  of  the  ocean  by  the  accumulated  remains 
of  millions  of  generations  of  polyps,  and  the  next  would  have  us  believe 
that  they  are  merely  the  caps  of  oceanic  mountains. 

For  a  century  the  very  foundation  on  which  chemistry  was  built 
was  the  doctrine  that  the  mass,  the  total  amount  of  things  in  the  uni- 
verse, was  unchangeable,  but  now  more  chemists  doubt  it  than  believe  it. 

Sixty  years  ago  Adam  Smith  was  thought  to  have  said  all  but  the  last 
word  on  economics,  and  his  principle  of  laissez-faire  was  the  holy  of 
holies;  but  now  laissez-faire  has  been  abandoned  and  only  a  single  one 
of  his  laws  remains  unchallenged. 

And  so  it  is  in  all  lines ;  theories  of  inheritance,  of  chemical  affinity, 
of  disease,  of  health,  of  life,  of  death — all  come  and  go  so  rapidly  that 
we  can  scarcely  keep  pace  with  the  procession.  And  when  we  look  into 
any  specialized  phase  of  a  subject,  the  host  of  ever-changing  theories 
simply  bewilders  any  but  the  extreme  specialist 

And  now  the  interesting  part  of  it  is  that  the  man  of  science  is 
the  very  one  who  is  not  worried  by  these  shifting  sands.  He  is  too  busy 
using  the  various  theories  to  accomplish  things.  He  seems  to  think 
no  more  of  discarding  one  theory  for  another  than  he  does  of  taking  up 
a  larger  test-tube  or  beaker,  or  of  adjusting  his  microscope  to  a  diflferent 

Spencer  has  well  said  that  the  aim  of  science  is  prediction.  Now 
your  man  of  science  wfints,  first  of  all,  to  predict  correctly,  and,  secondly, 
to  do  it  easily.  Accordingly,  he  picks  out  the  most  workable  theory,  or, 
if  none  will  do  it  well,  he  tries  to  invent  a  better,  exactly  as  a  carpenter 
would  select  the  most  suitable  of  his  tools,  or  try  to  design  a  new  and 
better  one.  The  man  who  calculated  eclipses  by  the  cycles  and  epicycles 
of  Ptolemy  was  no  less  an  astronomer  than  he  who  uses  tables  founded 
on  Newton's  law. 

Gibbon  states  that  in  Eome,  "to  the  common  people  all  religions  were 
all  equally  true,  to  the  philosopher  all  equally  false,  and  to  the  politician 
all  equally  useful.'*  Your  man  of  science  is  a  true  politician  when  it 
comes  to  theories. 



The  old-time  definition  assumed  that  there  were  three  stages  in  the 
development  of  a  theory — hypothesis,  theory,  law — each  indicating  the 
amount  of  confidence  that  was  placed  in  it  at  different  stages  of  its 
evolution.  But  the  newer  view  is  to  regard  a  theory  as  changing  into  a 
fact  as  it  is  shown  to  work  in  more  and  more  cases.  It  is  now  a  fact 
that  the  earth  is  round,  though  before  Columbus  it  was  a  theory.  His 
arguments  and  achievement,  Magellan's  feat,  the  shadows  in  eclipses, 
and,  most  of  all,  modem  surveying,  have  shown  that  the  erstwhile  theory 
works,  that  it  is  so  useful  as  to  be  necessary  in  many  different  fields  and 
so  is  dubbed  a  fact. 

A  scientific  fact,  then,  seems  to  be  a  scientific  theory  that  has  been 
verified.  And  it  is  worth  while  noting  that  verify  literally  means  to 
make  rather  than  to  show  to  be  true.  In  reading  the  narrative  of  the 
attempts  of  an  investigator  like  Faraday  to  make  headway  in  developing 
a  new  science,  one  can  but  liken  him  to  a  man  getting  out  of  a  labyrinth. 
At  every  step  a  dozen  different  paths  may  be  followed.  The  one  that 
leads  him  out  is  the  '*true*'  ohe.  There  may  be  several  "true**  ones.  Each 
path  is  a  claim  to  truth,  which  has  to  be  validated.  The  pioneer  investi- 
gator must  needs  be  interested  in  finding  a  "true"  way,  not  the  "truest" 
way,  which  means  simply  the  most  convenient  way.  That  must  be 
striven  for  by  those  who  come  after,  surveying  and  resurveying;  but  they 
can  never  be  sure  that  they  have  the  method  that  is  absolutely  best, 
for  who  knows  but  some  one  will  later  find  a  still  better  path  to 
tunnel  out  ? 

Now  science  is  nothing  but  specialized  common  sense.  We  more  or 
less  unconsciously  go  through  the  same  process  a  thousand  times  every 
day.  We  are  startled  by  an  unusual  sound  at  night.  A  dozen  explana- 
tions— that  is,  theories — each  having  a  claim  to  truth,  demand  accept- 
ance. The  most  of  them  work  so  poorly — that  is,  are  so  absurd — ^that  we 
do  not  dare  suggest  them  to  our  companions.  One  or  two  of  these 
claims  to  truth  seem  to  work  better  and  we  orally  propose  them.  Each 
is  tried  to  see  if  it  fits  in  well  with  the  great  body  of  theories  which 
we  have  found  to  work  well  enough  so  that  we  call  them  the  facts  of 
every-day  life.  One  works  undeniably  the  best,  and  we  say  that  the 
cat  has  made  an  unsuccessful  attempt  to  mount  the  pantry  shelf. 

A  pragmatist  woidd  say  that  each  one  has  made  this  fact  for  himself 
by  showing  that  it,  as  a  theory,  is  consistent  with  the  body  of  theories 
which  he  has  accepted  until  they  have  become  facts,  rather  than  that  he 
has  discovered  a  fact  absolutely  existent  independently  of  him.  In  order 
to  make  this  at  all  clear,  or  seemingly  credible,  we  must  go  into  it  a 
little  farther. 


Several  cases  have  occurred  of  a  person  bom  blind  having  the  sight 
given  by  an  operation.  In  each  case  the  person  had  to  learn  to  see.  A 
landscape  with  people  and  objects  in  the  foreground  all  seemed  to  one 
man  as  a  mere  indistinct  blotch  of  colors^  existing  not  in  the  outside 
world,  but  within  his  own  eye.  It  is  only  by  sorting  the  same  maze  of 
guesses,  theories,  that  such  a  person  classifies  the  complex  into  directions, 
distances,  and  objects,  each  one  of  which  is  a  validated  theory  and  con- 
veniently labeled  a  fact.  Psychology  teaches  that  the  new-bom  child  has 
to  pass  through  this  same  tedious  process  in  each  of  his  senses,  and  how 
much  more  difficult  it  must  be  for  the  child;  for  he  has  no  developed 
senses  to  help  him  form  guesses  looking  toward  a  working  analysis  of 
crude  sensations,  as  had  the  man  with  the  restored  vision.  Looking  back 
one  step  more,  we  see  that  the  race  must  have  gone  through  a  process 
infinitely  slower  and  more  tedious  in  evaluating  its  endless  jumble  of 
theories  into  working  shape  before  they  became  facts.  The  idea  of  a 
cat  as  an  automatic  object  was,  then,  a  theory  in  the  life  of  each  indi- 
vidual, just  as  well  as  of  the  race,  much  as  it  used  to  be  a  theory  that 
the  earth  was  round,  only  it  was  unconscious  and  illy  defined  and  had 
to  be  tested  out  just  as  well. 

Let  us  take  another  illustration.  The  average  man  would  decline 
to  believe  that  the  current  in  an  ordinary  electric  lamp  could  change 
to  and  fro  some  millions  of  times  per  second.  Yet  a  physicist  would 
tell  you  that  this  very  thing  can  quite  easily  be  done  and  to  him  it  is  a 
real  truth.  It  is  by  far  the  most  convenient  view  he  can  take  of  it  in 
order  to  understand  what  is  going  on  in  his  experiments,  and  in  order 
to  make  it  do  things  for  him,  as,  for  example,  to  produce  the  waves  for 
wireless  telegraphy.  Let  us  now  examine  a  layman  on  his  electrical  facts. 
We  snap  a  button  and  a  lamp  lights.  The  light  does  not  fit  in  with  his 
ideas  of  candle,  kerosene,  or  gas.  The  wire-like  loop  is  white  hot.  He 
knows  that  mysterious  cables  and  wires  are  laid  in  conduits  in  the  street 
and  stmng  around  the  house;  that  wires  have  always  to  lead  to  street 
cars  and  motors  before  they  can  be  made  to  run.  The  theory  that  the 
energy  that  lights  the  lamp  comes  through  the  copper  wire  fits  in  with  his 
other  facts.  Still  further,  he  has  always  heard  that  electricity  is  a 
marvellous  force  that  even  very  wise  men  do  not  understand.  He  does 
not  understand  it.  Excellent  fit!  So  the  theory  that  the  power  to 
light  comes  through  the  wire  becomes  for  him  a  fact.  At  the  same 
time,  for  the  physicist  it  is  a  fact  that  the  power  does  not  come  through 
the  wire,  but  through  the  ether  surrounding  the  wire,  and  to  show  his 
faith  in  his  fact  he  gives  us  the  wireless  telegraph. 

Let  us  once  more  restate  it.    For  the  pragmatist,  the  noise  which 



disturbed  us  at  nighty  the  cat,  the  shelf,  the  pantry,  the  electric  lamp, 
the  wireless  telegraph,  are  each  theories  that  each  individual  has  found 
to  work  consistently  among  the  mass  of  his  other  theory-facts. 

A  cynical  writer  has  said  that  there  are  always  three  stages  by  which 
a  great  principle  wins  its  way  to  popular  approval:  First,  we  say  it  is 
too  absurd  to  merit  consideration;  second,  that  it  is  as  old  as  the  hills, 
anyway,  and  is  to  be  found  either  in  the  Bible,  Greek  philosophy,  or 
the  Egyptian  hieroglyphics;  third,  it  is  so  axiomatic  that  we  have  always 
believed  it. 

Pragmatism  is  just  now  passing  from  the  first  into  the  second  stage, 
and  it  is  indicative  of  the  political  instinct  of  the  pragmatists  that  they 
foresaw  the  conditions  and  have  tried  to  disarm  criticism  by  not  only 
admitting  that  it  is  old,  but  claiming  age  as  one  of  its  virtues.  They 
insist  that  they  are  only  using  the  common-sense  method  of  thinking  that 
has  been  developing  all  down  the  ages,  and  trying  to  inject  a  little  of 
it  into  the  regular  schools  of  philosophy.  So  Professor  James  entitles 
his  last  book  Pragmatism,  a  New  Name  for  an  Old  Way  of  Thinking. 
And  the  foremost  English  pragmatist,  Mr.  Schiller,  harks  back  to  pre- 
Socratic  thought.  He  has  translated  a  couple  of  papyri  of  the  sophist 
PhiloQous,  which  remind  one  of  the  clear  psychological  essays  of  James 

In  fact,  Schiller  would  have  us  believe  the  much  abused  sophists  to 
have  been  upon  the  right  track,  but  that  the  path  to  progress  was  barred 
for  nearly  twenty  centuries  by  the  unfortunate  advent  of  Plato. 

Protagoras,  the  most  eminent  of  the  sophists,  had  made  the  maxim, 
"Man  is  the  measure  of  all  things"  the  core  of  his  teachings.  This  is 
a  most  remarkable  saying,  being  loaded  with  pragmatic  meaning, 
making  the  truth  or  falsity  of  all  things, — fact,  fancy,  law,  theory,  the  ab- 
solute independence  of  the  universe  itself, — depend  on  how  they  fit  into 
man's  mental  make-up,  the  body  of  his  opinions,  beliefs,  accepted  theories, 
facts.  You  will  see  that  in  the  *^an  is  the  measure  of  all  things'*  of 
Protagoras  is  included  most  of  the  theory  of  knowledge  which  we  have 
been  trying  to  develop,  and  which  is  now  called  pragmatism. 

Now  one  of  Plato's  books  he  named  Protagoras,  and  in  it  he  por- 
trayed Socrates  as  making  the  most  elaborate  arguments  to  overthrow 
the  whole  philosophy  which  Protagoras  built  aroimd  'Tlan  is  the  meas- 
ure.'' To  just  what  extent  Socrates  himself  opposed  Protagoras  probably 
cannot  be  said,  for  if  I  understand  the  matter  aright,  we  have  not  a  sin- 
gle authenticated  line  of  Socrates's  writings.  Only  accounts  of  his  sajrings 
and  teachings  recorded  by  Plato  and  other  contemporaries  have  come 


down  to  us,  and  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  Plato  has  made  his  Socrates 
a  mere  mouthpiece  to  give  his  own  ideas.  In  fact,  some  writers  enclose 
the  name  of  Socrates  in  quotation  marks;  Perhaps  Shakespeare's  speech 
of  Mark  Antony  is  about  equally  authentic  historically. 

Plato  elaborated  an  ideal  universe  (not  merely  world)  for  himself, 
and  then  tried  to  bridge  the  chasm  between  it  and  everyday  life.  Idealism 
was  the  thing,  and  for  him  it  would  be  prostituting  his  ideal  to  check  it 
by  experiment.  Perhaps  it  seemed  more  dignified,  also,  to  discuss  for 
years  the  anatomical  structure  of  an  animal  from  an  a  priori  basis,  rather 
than  to  dissect  an  animal  and  find  out  the  facts.  This  is  the  very  op- 
posite of  the  scientific  or  pragmatic  method. 

What  Schiller  means  by  Plato's  being  a  barrier  to  progress  was  that 
his  great  dialectic  genius  allowed  him  to  turn  the  whole  Greek  mind  from 
the  path  of  science  to  his  own  "intellectually  suicidal  idealism.''  He  says 
that  if  ever  a  man  was  bom  to  be  a  scientific  genius  it  was  Aristotle,  and 
insinuates  that  the  overshadowing  genius  of  the  teacher  obfuscated  the 
mind  of  the  pupil.  A  similar  case  occurred  in  historical  geology  in  the 
early  years  of  the  nineteenth  century.  Lamark  had  definitely  formulated 
the  hypothesis  of  organic  evolution.  The  attention  taken  by  the  over- 
shadowing mind  of  Cuvier  completely  blocked  progress  until  the  advent 
of  Darwin's  work  half  a  century  later ;  only  in  the  Greek  world  progress 
was  retarded  twenty  centuries  instead  of  fifty  years. 

Plato's  absolute  idealism  still  dominates,  or  tyrannizes  over  common 
thought, — according  to  one's  point  of  view.  No  matter  to  what  "ism"  we 
subscribe  we  are  always  assuming  that  there  is  such  a  thing  as  the  "ab- 
solutely absolute  absolute,"  as' Professor  Bawden  calls  it,  an  already-made- 
to-order  scheme  of  things.  Schiller  regards  this  tendency,  which  has 
become  nearly  second  nature  to  the  most  of  men,  as  opposed  to  the  open- 
mindedness  so  necessary  to  progress,  and  he  holds  Plato  responsible  for 
the  condition. 

Pragmatists  claim  that  the  change  in  thought  regarding  logic  is  a 
step  toward  their  attitude.  Formal  logic,  as  it  came  from  the  hands  of 
Aristotle,  was  the  method  of  correct  thinking,  a  gift  from  the  gods. 
But  the  view  has  changed.  It  is  no  longer  considered  an  edict  handed 
down,  but  merely  a  descriptive  subject, — what  grammar  is  to  language, 
that  logic  is  to  thought.  "Plural  verbs  follow  plural  subjects"  is  not  an 
absolute  rule,  but  a  general  statement  of  a  habit  we  observe  in  those 
speakers  and  writers  whose  style  we  like.  So  the  syllogism,  in  logic,  is  a 
brief  description  of  the  most  useful  mode  of  thinking. 

Pragmatists  go  further  and  maintain  that  "pure  reason"  and  the 
"purely  intellectual"  do  not  exist,  that  even  the  most  severely  logical 



thought  is  not  independent  of  human  will  and  human  emotion.  One  of 
James's  first  steps  toward  pragmatism  was  his  The  Will  to  Believe, 
whose  subject  indicates  this  viewpoint. 

Some  views  recently  put  forth  by  a  group  of  French  mathematicians 
on  the  ultimate  logical  aspect  of  mathematical  reasoning  may  make  the 
meaning  clearer.  Mathematics  is  always  held  to  be  the  logical  science,  the 
very  citadel  of  logic.  Consider  in  particular  Euclidian  geometry,  the 
geometry  we  all  were  taught.  Euclid  erected  it  on  a  base  of  postulates, 
as  they  are  technically  called,  assumptions,  about  points  and  lines,  purely 
arbitrary,  though  of  common  experience.  The  most  famous  is  about 
parallel  lines.  Now  a  Bussian  mathematician,  Lobachevski  by  name,  has 
developed  an  entirely  different  sort  of  geometry  by  taking  all  of  Euclid's 
postulates^  excepting  the  one  on  parallel  lines,  which  he  changed.  His 
geometry  seems  very  strange  and  imcanny.  We  are  used  to  the  idea  that 
if  we  add  up  the  three  angles  of  a  triangle  we  get  exactly  180°.  His 
geometry  makes  it  always  less  than  180°.  Another  peculiar  property  is 
that  according  to  his  geometry  we  cannot  have  two  objects  the  same  shape 
but  different  in  size.  That  is,  we  could  not  make  a  table  the  same  shape 
as  ihifk  one,  only  twice  as  large  in  each  dimension.  But  his  geometry  is 
no  whit  less  logical  than  that  of  Euclid. 

Later,  a  celebrated  German  mathematician,  Bieman,  by  another 
change  in  the  parallel  postulate,  developed  another  geometry,  which  dif- 
fers from  the  Euclidian  in  the  exactly  opposite  sense  from  that  of 
Lobachevski.  For  him,  the  angles  of  a  triangle  always  add  up  to  more 
than  180°.  Again,  it  is  just  as  logical  as  Euclid.  We  may  express  the 
relationships  very  crudely  by  saying  that  a  people  living  under  the  reign 
of  Bieman's  geometry  would  be  on  the  outside  of  a  sphere ;  turn  the  sphere 
inside  out  and  there  we  should  find  Lobachevski's  people,  while  we,  who 
believe  in  Euclid,  would  strike  a  balance  and  live  on  a  flat  or  plane 

Poincar6,  who  is  the  leading  mathematician  of  France,  sums  up  the 
whole  matter  by  saying  that  geometry  is  not  true,  it  is  not  false,  it 
is  merely  convenient.  To  determine  which  geometry  is  ultimately  true 
would  be  like  deciding  which  is  the  true  method  of  counting  money,  dol- 
lars and  cents,  or  poimds  and  shillings;  or  like  discussing  which  is  the 
true  mode  of  locomotion,  walking  or  automobiling.  To  generalize  this, 
mathematics  is  an  exquisitely  convenient  system  of  jugglery.  For  the 
pragmatist,  then,  mathematics  is  not  a  system  of  absolute  immutable 
truths,  but  a  method  of  doing  things,  whose  value  to  the  race  is  incon- 
ceivable. Carried  to  the  subject  of  knowledge  in  general,  the  pragmatic 
method  is  to  regard  action,  accomplishment  as  the  primordial  stuff  out 


of  which  and  by  which  the  world  is  to  be  explained.    It  adds  a  final  step 
to  evolntionary  thought  in  making  truth  itself  a  growing  thing. 

I  am  not  sure  that  pragmatism  is  a  philosophy.  It  seems  to  me  more 
like  the  antithesis  of  philosophy,  in  that  it  does  away  with  the  idea  of 
there  being  any  absolute,  immutable  scheme  of  things,  to  discover  which 
is  the  business  of  philosophy;  that  it  is  like  Pythagoras  learning  the 
secrets  of  the  Egyptian  mysteries,  the  secret  being  that  they  had  no  se- 
crets and  that  there  was  no  mystery.  It  seems  that  it  would  drive  the 
last  nail  into  the  cofl5n  gf  the  spirit  of  orthodoxy,  orthodoxy  in  the  broader 
philosopliical  sense  as  well  as  in  the  more  narrow  religious  one. 

Pragmatism  inspires  the  feeling  that  it  is  as  yet  very  incomplete,  but 
that  it  is  a  growing  conception.  In  present  times  the  standpoint  was  first 
clearly  stated  by  Mr.  C.  S.  Peirce,  in  an  article  in  the  Popular  Science 
Monthly  some  thirty  years  ago,  on  "How  to  Make  our  Ideas  Clcar.*^  It 
is  interesting  to  note  that  while  Peirce  still  champions  pragmatism,  he 
has  recently  stated  that  the  doctrine  to  which  it  leads,  of  all  meaning  ly- 
ing in  action,  appealed  to  him  more  at  thirty  than  it  does  at  sixty.  The 
idea  lay  dormant  for  twenty  years  when  Professor  William  James  took 
it  up,  and  he  is  now  the  acknowledged  leader  of  the  movement.  He  re- 
signed his  position  last  year  in  order  to  give  his  whole  time  to  developing 
and  spreading  its  teachings.  Professor  Dewey,  of  Columbia,  is  another 
leading  exponent.  Papini,  in  Italy,  PoiQcar^,  and  a  group  of  men  of 
science  in  France  are  carrying  on  propaganda.  Schiller,  in  England,  is 
one  of  the  most  voluminous  and  polemic  writers  on  the  subject.  Ostwald, 
the  chemist,  and  Mach,  who  holds  a  chair  of  the  history  of  science,  are 
strongly  influencing  German  thought  along  pragmatic  lines. 

The  word  pragmatism  comes  from  the  Greek  "pragma,"  meaning 
thing  or  business.  It  really  has  more  of  the  force  of  action  than  our 
word  thing,  being  related  to  "prassein,*'  meaning  to  do.  In  Hamlet* s 
**The  play^s  the  thing,"  a  better  shade  of  the  meaning  is  expressed.  Mr. 
Schiller  uses  the  word  "humanism"  instead  of  pragmatism.  Probably 
most  people  take  more  kindly  to  it,  as  pragmatism  really  has  a  rather 
hard,  materialistic  sound.  It  ako  well  expresses  the  old  epigram  of 
Protagoras,  "Man  is  the  measure  of  all  things." 

P.  0.  Agnew. 



(a  propob  of  edouard  rod's  prefacb  to  alotsb  yaiJrien)^ 
The  novel  considered  here  is  not  the  one  merely  intended  to  provide 
a  few  hours  of  pleasant  reading  by  means  of  some  sentimental  stoiy  told 
possibly  with  a  good  sense  of  humor,  but  the  noverwhieh  discusses  for  the 
general  public,  questions  of  general  interest  raised  by  the  scientist,  the 
social  economist,  or  the  moralist;  let  us  say  the  novel  which,  for  the  lay- 
man, replaces  treatises  of  philosophy — and  discusses  these  questions  of 
course,  conscientiously,  not  only  with  the  obvious  purpose  of  defending  a 
paradox  in  order  to  secure  a  large  sale. 

This  serious  novel  has  been  cultivated  with  particularly  great  success 
in  France  during  the  whole  of  the  nineteenth  century.  Many,  many 
animated  discussions  of  social  problems — divorce,  poverty,  socialism, 
feminism,  and  so  forth — ^were  inspired  by  such  works  of  fiction.  And 
even  for  the  most  impei-sonal  writers,  the  time  came  in  their  career,  when 
they  could  not  resist  the  temptation  of  becoming  didactic.  Maupassant 
would  write  his  Inutile  heauUy  or  his  Vagabond,  or  his  unfinished 
Angelus;  Marcel  Pr6vost,  his  feministic  novels;  Zola  ended  in  a  fit  of  en- 
thusiasm for  a  general  social  reform,  as  expressed  in  his  EvangUes; 
Bourget  has  more  and  more  dropped  the  purely  psychological  novel  in 
order  to  defend  with'passion  traditional  ideas  in  religion  and  ethics.  .  .  . 
And  now,  if  one  looks  back  on  the  two  or  three  years  just  elapsed,  the 
fact  will  be  realized  that  novels  "i  thfese"  have  become  very  scarce ;  all  of 
a  sudden  the  preaching  has  ceased  almost  completely  among  novelists  that 
count."  Of  course,  let  there  be  no  misunderstanding :  it  would  be  a  great 
mistake  to  believe  that  recent  novel  writers  ignore  those  social  problems. 
No,  indeed  1  They  realize  as  deeply  as  ever  the  existence  of  many  puzzling 
questions  regarding  modem  life;  but  precisely  the  point  is  that  they 
only  realize  their  existence ;  they  see  them,  they  mention  them,  they  even 
discuss  them,  but  they  do  not  try  any  longer  to  solve  them. 

^Aloyae  ValMn,    Par  Edouard  Rod.    Paris:  Perrin,  1908. 

This  is  true  in  part  also  of  the  drama.  In  the  domain  of  the  novel,  we 
ought  perhaps  to  except  in  corpore  women  novelists;  a  good  many  of  them  are 
still  willing  to  be  didactic;  but  intellectual  women  are  seldom  possessed  with  a 
sense  of  reality;  they  live  generally  either  fifty  years  back  of  their  age,  or  fifty 
yearH  ahead;  the  result  is  that  their  influence  on  the  intellectual  development  of 
their  time  amounts  practically  to  nothing. 


Those  reflections  came  over  us  with  peculiar  force  after  turning  the 
last  page  of  Bod's  recent  novel,  Aloyse  VaUrien.  Tliis  author  may  well 
be  taken  as  representative  of  the  present  state  of  mind  among  novelists. 
Let  us  therefore  consider  more  closely  his  case  in  the  light  of  the  volume 
just  mentioned. 

Eod  has  always  been  one  of  our  modem  fiction  writers  who  reflected 
most.  But  just  on  account  of  that,  because  he  seemed  to  realize  better  the 
diflSculties  of  the  problems  before  him,  he  did  not  come  out  with  brilliant 
theories,  paradoxical  standpoints,  Utopian  promises  like  others.  The 
reader  was  under  the  impression  that  this  man  was  sounding  the  problems 
of  sorrow  and  happiness  of  humankind  more  deeply  than  many  of  his 
colleagues;  and  if  nothing  definite  had  come  from  him  yet,  was  not 
the  public  authorized  to  expect  from  him,  who  had  withheld  plain  talk 
so  long,  perhaps  a  more  practical  hint  for  the  future? — Weill  it  seems 
not,  for  just  now,  when  one  might  have  believed  that  his  turn  had  come, 
this  very  man  wrote,  for  his  last  novel,  a  short  Preface — it  is  not  two 
pages  long,  in  rather  large  types,  but  very  significant  coming  at  this 
hour — to  the  efifect  that  no  such  thing  was  to  be  expected  from  him.  After 
studying  modern  conditions  of  life  carefully,  conscientiously,  persistently, 
he  warns  his  readers  that,  should  they  ask  him  what  message  he 
brought  to  his  fellow-men,  his  answer  would  simply  be:  There  is  no 
message  I 

This,  at  least,  is  what  the  writer  reads  between  the  lines  of  the  Pref- 
ace which  has  been  so  widely  commented  in  France.  It  contains,  in  its 
main  part,  a  classification  of  Rod's  novels  as  they  appear  to  him  at  this 
moment  of  his  career.  Besides  a  few  "(Euvres  de  debut,"  he  distinguishes 
between  "fitudes  psychologiques,''  "fitudes  passionnelles,"  and  "fitudes 
sociales."  Begarding  the  first  group,  it  is  evident  from  the  words  used  that 
descriptions  of  mental  attitudes  are  all  they  pretend  to  provide.  Regard- 
ing the  "fitudes  passionnelles,''  Bod  has  this  to  say:  "It  was  not  the 
author's  intention  to  make  in  any  of  them  a  "livre  k  th^se"  .  .  .  never 
did  he  have  anything  in  mind  except  to  describe  impartially  the  distur- 
bances created  in  our  lives  by  the  cruel  play  of  passions."  In  the  "fitudefJ 
sociales,"  he  wishes  to  show  that :  "the  perturbations  pictured  do  not  find 
their  causes  in  defects  of  social  institutions  and  of  laws,  but  in  human 
nature  and  the  everlasting  opposition  between  human  instincts  and  the 
requirements  of  social  life." 

It  is  always  interesting  to  see  how  an  author  judges  his  own  work; 
but,  of  course,  this  classification  is  an  afterthought,  and,  as  in  the  case  of 
Balzac's  "Com6die  humaine,"  one  cannot  expect  to  find  the  novels  fit  in 



exactly.  Everywhere  there  is  overlapping.  Ko  novel  by  Sod  belongs  ex- 
clusively to  Number  1,  2,  or  3.^ 

This^  however^  is  secondary.  The  important  thing,  I  repeat  it,  is  that 
Bod  wishes  ns  to  consider  his  work  as  absolutely  negative  from  the  moral 
or  social  standpoint 

Now  the  question  that  I  should  like  to  raise  is  this:  Did  Bod  ori- 
ginally start  with  the  idea  of  writing  merely  descriptive  novels,  and  really 
without  any  desire  to  impress  some  practical  truths  on  his  reader's  minds? 
His  Course  a  la  mort,  his  Sens  de  la  vie,  for  instance,  can  they  really  be 
taken  as  not  being  attempts  to  offer,  gloomy  answers  it  may  be,  but  still 
answers  to  moral  problems  ? — ^The  very  titles  say :  no  1  Bod  gave  up,  to  be 
sure,  the  conception  of  life  described  in  the  two  famous  novels.  But,  even 
after  that,  can  it  be  said  with  certainty  that  he  made  no  other  attempt  to 
enlighten  morally  ?  One  thing  strikes  us :  If  Bod,  suddenly  one  day,  feels 
the  necessity  of  telling  us  that  his  books  contain  no  theory  of  life,  does  this 
not  imply,  to  say  the  least,  that  he  himself  considers  that  his  books  could 
be  read  so  as  to  convey  a  didactic  impression?  In  case  any  intelligent 
reader  coidd  see  plainly  that  there  exists  nothing  of  the  sort,  what  would 
be  the  use  of  telling  us?  Therefore,  is  not  the  truth  of  the  matter  perhaps 
that,  after  all,  Bod  had  actually  tried  to  find  an  answer  to  the  problems  of 
life,  but,  finally,  being  dissatisfied  vrith  the  results  of  his  investigations, 
wished  to  avoid  disappointment  to  his  readers,  or  preclude  criticism,  in 
writing  his  Preface?  Or  let  us  express  the  same  idea  differently :  Suppose 
for  the  sake  of  argument,  that  Bod  had  f oimd  an  answer  which  was  satis- 
factory to  him  (as  e.g.,  Zola  did),  would  he  have  withheld  it  from  us? — 
Surely  not  1  Thus  when  he  says  to-day :  "No  answer  is  to  be  found,  only 
problems  stated  in  my  novels,**  does  it  not  really  mean  that  he  found  him- 
self unable  to  give  the  right  answer,  and  rather  wished  that  his  work  be 
considered  as  offering  none  at  all  ? — If  this  manner  of  understanding  the 
Preface  is  a  correct  one,  this  gives  an  entirely  new  bearing  to  the  whole 
discussion  of  it.  But  before  we  come  to  that,  we  must  examine  whether 
the  novel  following  the  Preface  will  support  our  interpretation. 

The  story  runs  thus :  Aloyse  Val6rien,  disappointed  in  her  aspirations 

^Not  to  speak  of  the  fact  that  the  classification  itself  is  not  satisfactory  from 
the  logical  point  of  view;  the  adjectives  "psychologiques"  and  "passionnelles"  are 
not  on  the  same  plan;  "passionnelles"  novels  are  sure  to  be  always  "psycho- 
logiques";  so  that  we  ought  to  have  something  like:  "£tudes  psychologiques, 
(a)  passionnelles,  and  (6)  non-passionnelles.  As  to  the  "fitudes  sociales"  similar 
remarks  can  be  made :  it  is  clear  that  Rod  could  not  write  any  "£tudes  sociales" 
which  were  not  at  the  same  time  "psychologiques"  or  "passionnelles" — even  both 
— ^no  more  than  he  could  do  the  reverse,  write  psychological  novels  which  were 
not  social. 


for  a  higher  life  in  marriage^  loves  a  young  artist.  The  latter^  in  a  duel, 
kills  the  husband;  but  soon  after  he  dies  himself^  out  of  grief ^  while  the 
woman  devotes  her  life  entirely  to  the  education  of  her  daughter.  People 
never  know  the  true  story^  and  admire  the  woman's  faithfulness  to  the 
memory  of  Yal^rien;  they  see  in  her  acts  of  remorse^  acts  of  devotion. 
One  person^  however^  knows  of  the  real  love-tragedy^  Mazelaine,  the  friend 
of  the  killed  husband^  and  the  tutor  of  the  littie  girl  Agn^.  Mazelaine 
has  a  son^  Florian^  but  he  takes  good  care  that  the  two  children  shall  meet 
as  littie  as  possible^  being  afraid  of  hereditary  dispositions  in  the  daughter 
of  Aloyse.  In  fact^  Agnes'  destiny  is  remarkably  the  same  as  her  mother's; 
she  has  a  bourgeois  sort  of  a  husband^  and  her  soul  is  sighing  for  true 
love^  and  happiness  of  a  higher  kind.  The  man  she  loves^  and  by  whom 
she  is  loved  is  precisely  Mazelaine's  son.  Both  parents  now  try  every- 
thing to  prevent  mishap;  but  even  the  most  radical  remedy^  the  revelation 
of  Aloyse  Yal6rien's  true  story^  only  postpones  the  catastrophe.  .  .  . 
In  the  last  scene^  the  poor  woman  is  there  pondering  hopelessly  over  right 
or  wrong;  and  the  book  ends  on  the  word  "fatality." 

This  short  account  shows  already  the  position  of  a  sceptic  taken  by 
Bod.  But^  this  scepticism  is  not  made  out  of  resignation.  On  the  con- 
trary; never  for  one  line  does  the  author  stop  debating  for  us  whether 
those  who  yield  to  their  passions  were  right  or  wrong.  If  he  had  made 
up  his  mind  in  advance  that  everything  was  really  "fatal/'  and  that 
wrong  and  right  were  just  mere  words,  what  would  be  the  meaning  of  this 
everlasting  tone  of  ^scussion?  Logically  nothing  more  was  justified 
than  a  plain  objective  psychological  study.  But  no  1  Bod  discusses ;  only 
he  stops  before  pronouncing  a  verdict.  For  he  cannot  make  up  his  mind 
— ^this  seems  as  clear  as  daylight. 

Take  Aloyse  the  chief  heroine,  has  she  remorses  or  not?  The  book  will 
not  tell  you,  for  it  depends  upon  the  exact  meaning  of  the  word  remorse. 
Is  the  woman's  feeling,  as  described  by  Bod,  not  perhaps  mere  regret  con- 
cerning the  social  (distinct  from  moral)  disorders  that  were  brought 
about  in  consequence  of  her  love  (because  she  was  found  out),  and  which 
has  such  lasting  effects,  while  her  happiness  did  not  last?  or,  is  true  re- 
morse blended  with  fear  lest  her  blood  might  condemn  her  daughter 
fatally  to  a  life  as  shattered  as  her  own?  She  surely  does  not  know. 
But  then,  attght  she  to  feel  plain  remorse?  Bod  is  careful  not  to  betray 
his  own  sentiment  about  it.  Suppose  she  could  begin  her  life  over  again, 
we  ask  naturally:  would  she,  must  she  sacrifice  even  the  few  moments  of 
happiness  that  she  could  enjoy,  to  the  requirements  of  a  social  order  that 
condemns  her  to  unceasing  sorrow?  In  other  words:  is  the  social  order 
that  brings  happiness  to  no  one  but  can  at  the  utmost  prevent  some  un- 



pleasant  things^  more  important  than  the  disorder  which  actually  carries 
with  it  happiness  even  of  short  duration  to  two  people  ?  Serious  questions 
after  all,  extremely  real  questions,  which  thinking  people  cannot  afford  to 
ignore  I — ^but,  I  repeat  it,  no  answer  comes  from  Bod's  pen.  Nothing  but 
interrogative  marks  after  constantly  repeated  and  sterile  discussions. 

Like  Ck)meille  in  his  dramas,  Bod  has  planned  his  novel  so  that  all 
the  chief  characters  are  facing  the  same  central  problem,  and  are  taking 
different  attitudes  toward  it.  The  extreme  views  are  best  shown  in  father 
and  son  Mazelaine.  The  father  ^'conservative  by  tradition,  religious  by 
deep  conviction,  patriotic  by  instinct  .  .  .  considered  faith,  the  Church, 
property,  family,  indispensable  things  which  could  not  even  be  discussed, 
indispensable  to  collective  life.  .  .  .  And  this  sort  of  intellectual  an- 
archism (of  the  new  generation)  frightened  him  like  a  poisonous  product 
of  social  decomposition.  .  .  .  TTour  ideas  are  not  goiag  to  give  you  any 
help  in  life,'  he  said  one  day  to  his  son  during  a  long  conversation."  Or, 
some  other  time :  "Our  old  idea  of  duty  has  proved  valuable,  it  can  still 
prove  so.  No  theory  can  take  its  place.  Its  orders  are  simple  and  clear; 
there  is  its  advantage.  .  .  .''  And  the  son  replies:  ''That  is  tme;  your 
ideas  are  good  for  social  order;  I  believe  in  their  social  value.  As  to 
their  moral  eflSciency:  Nol'',  and  if  those  ideas,  socially  useful,  are  not 
true  in  themselves — ^what  th^?  if  there  is  something  above  social  order, 
have  we  no  right  to  sacrifice  social  order  to  that  higher  thing — ^which  is 
perhaps  love?  "True  love,  which  chooses,  which  lasts,  which  fills  life, 
which  remains  a  sublime  thing  even  in  its  worst  manifestations,  is  a 
phenomenon  as  rare  as  it  is  beautiful.  So  rare  it  is,  father,  that  we  can 
dispense  with  taking  it  into  account,  in  our  discussions  regarding  good 
and  evil,  duty  and  virtue  \"  elsewhere :  "I  have  another  doctrine  than 
yours:  one  must  live  first  the  whole  life,  and  then,  afterward,  discuss 

And  once  more  we  ask :  what  does  Bod  himself  think  of  all  that? — ^He 
cannot  tell.  On  the  one  hand  he  is  not  willing  to  give  up  conscience, 
duty,  and  so  forth;  he  speaks  almost  with  contempt  of  those  theories  of 
"right  of  happiness,''  "duties  toward  oneself,"  "rights  of  the  heart," 
"and  other  cliches  popularized  on  the  stage  and  in  books."  But  on  the 
other  hand  again,  he  allows  the  stem  Mazelaine  himself,  who  has  accom- 
plished that  "duty"  which  robs  his  beloved  son  of  happiness,  to  re- 
flect thus :  "I  have  done  my  duty  1  .  .  .  But  this  word  duty  with  which 
he  tried  to  fill  up  his  mind  carried  with  it  obscure  scruples,  persistent 


m  *  ^  ^  ^ 

Thus  we  have  one  of  the  keenest  and  clearest  intelligences  of  our  time 


who  has  discussed  moral  and  social  trafh  in  a  sincere  and  disinterested 
manner,  and  in  the  spirit  of  modem  thought :  this  man  ends  by  acknowl- 
edging a  failure,  or  at  least  giving  up  the  idea  of  solving  to  his  satisfac- 
tion the  vital  problems  which  humankind  has  to  face.  Far  from  us  the 
idea  of  reproaching  him  for  it;  we  realize  too  well  through  his  books  what 
a  complex  task  it  is.  But  there  is  something  at  the  same  time  pathetic 
and  great  in  the  frank  statement:  '%  like  others,  I  have  failed;  only,  I 
prefer  to  say  so.'*  If  only  all  would  do  the  same  who  feel  the  same — and 
surely  there  are  many — ^it  would  avoid  much  shallow  talk  that  is  going  on 
simply  owing  to  a  lack  of  courage  to  admit  a  fact.  The  fact,  I  mean,  that 
there  is  no  use  trying  over  and  over  again  to  seek  a  new  philosophy  of  life 
in  following  beaten  paths.  We  are  tormented  by  the  beautiful  desire  to 
run  toward  the  goal  of  justice  and  happiness  to  all.  We  need  not  give 
that  up ;  but  someone  must  come  and  start  a  new  line  of  thought  which 
will  enable  us  at  last  to  satisfy  the  craving  of  modem  conscience. 

From  what  direction  will  the  right  suggestion  come? — The  answer 
cannot  possibly  be  given  here.  But  a  close  study  of  some  recent  currents 
of  thoughts  might  possibly  bring  about  some  valuable  revelation  regard- 
ing this  important  problem.  Albert  Bchinz. 


There  arenH  very  many  people  who  can  sing  out  to  us,  ^'Come  and 
play !",  with  that  right  alluring  utterance  that  makes  us  cast  aside  our 
workaday  concerns  and  fare  forth  again  adventurous  as  in  the  wonder-years 
before  we  left  off  trailing  clouds  of  glory.  When  Tusitala  died,  and  the 
swarthy-skinned  Samoans  buried  him  beneath  the  wide  and  starry  sky  on 
the  summit  of  that  mountain,  aloof  above  the  huge  Pacific  seas,  whose  pines 
are  evermore  made  musical  by  singing  birds,  it  looked  for  a  while  as  if 
nobody  was  left  to  play  with  us.  Of  course  there  remained  that  Barrie 
fellow  who  knows  all  the  ducks  in  Kensington  Gardens  and  agrees  with 
us  that  it  is  very  foolish  to  grow  up;  but  he  obstinately  made  up  his 
mind  to  play  only  in  a  play-house  thenceforward,  instead  of  telling  us 
stories  as  of  yore.  Then  along  came  a  chap  named  Kenneth  Grahame, 
who  had  the  tme  miraculous  voice  and  reminded  us  of  the  dream  days 
of  our  golden  age.  Surely  he  knew  how  to  play !  He  had  not  forgotten 
that  everything  on  earth  is  wonderful,  that  the  meanest  actuality  is  an 
expression  of  some  august  reality,  that  the  commonest  action  is  romance, 
that  all  work  rightly  undertaken  is  good  fun,  that  hardship  is  adventure, 

^The  Wind  in  the  Willows.  By  Kenneth  Grahame.  New  York:  Charles 
Scriboer'B  Sons.  j 


g4  "nXB  FORUM 

that  sorrow  is  poetry,  and  that  happiness  is  religion.  He  remembered 
all  the  wise  and  simple  truths  that  Wordsworth  had  forgotten  before  he 
penned  that  tragic  opening  to  the  saddest  of  all  odes.  He  was  the 
fellow  for  ns ;  and  we  were  just  getting  ready  to  wag  our  heads  laughingly 
at  grave  grown-nps — ^when  something  very  dreadful  happened. 

A  foi^tfnl  and  prosaic  world  remarked  to  Kennelh  Grahame  that 
**Busine8s  is  business" — whatever  that  may  mean.  It  told  him  solemnly 
that  he  was  Secretary  of  the  Bank  of  England — as  if  that  were  a  matter 
of  importance — and  that  it  was  his  dniy  to  dictate  letters  about  sums  of 
money.  He  knew  better,  of  course;  but  that  external  and  superfluous 
insistence  made  him  rather  sad  and  weary.  As  a  result,  he  let  ten  years 
slip  by  without  coming  forth  to  play  with  us  again.  We  were  making 
up  our  minds  that  we  should  never,  never  forgive  him;  but  lol  again 
his  dear  call,  ''Come  and  play!" — and  like  true  children  we  forget  the 
intervening,  desultory  years,  and  follow  him  gaily  again  into  the  world 
of  glory  and  enchantment. 

After  all,  it  appears  that  he  has  not  entirely  wasted  a  drear  decade 
with  workaday  concerns.  He  has  listened  to  the  wind  in  the  willows 
and  heard  it  as  the  fluting  of  an  immemorial  god.  And  now  at  last  he 
tells  a  tale  once  more,  to  remind  us  that  every  hour  of  the  light  and  dark 
is  an  unspeakably  perfect  miracle — ^lest  we  forget,  lest  we  forget.  .  .  . 

The  bother  about  most  books  is  that  they  endeavor  to  explain  away 
the  wonder  of  the  world.  We  pick  up  a  volume  with  the  simple,  sane  con- 
viction that  water  is  a  lucid,  cool,  and  gliding  liquid  which  miraculously 
quenches  thirst;  and  the  author  tells  us,  instead,  that  water  is  a  chemical 
compound  of  two  parts  of  hydrogen  with  one  of  oxygen.  With  unques- 
tioning contentedness  we  had  spelt  the  friendly  fluid  W-A-T-E-R;  and 
we  find  ourselves  complacently  informed  that  we  should  henceforth  spell 
it  H2O.  This  is  both  unsettling  and  annoying;  for  in  place  of  our  in- 
herent and  indisputable  wisdom  the  author  offers  us  merely  a  derived  and 
demonstrable  knowledge.  But  the  books  of  Kenneth  Grahame  may  be 
safely  read,  because  they  are  haunted  by  the  visionary  gleam.  He  knows 
things  simply,  like  a  child;  and  he  loves  them  for  the  great  reason  that 
they  are  wonderful. 

The  Wind  in  the  Willows  is  a  poem  in  praise  of  the  glory  that  can 
never  really  pass  away  from  the  earth,  unless  we  allow  ourselves  to  grow 
up  and  forget — ^which,  you  may  be  sure,  we  shall  never,  never  do,  until 
what  time  the  birds  shall  cease  to  sing  about  the  tomb  of  Tusitala.  It 
reveals  anew  the  miracle  of  out-of-doors.  The  romance  of  the  river,  the 
allurement  of  the  open  road,  the  tremulous  ecstatic  terrors  of  the  wild 
wood,  the  sad  sweet  tug  of  heart-strings  by  the  sense  of  home,  the  poignant 


wander-longing,  the  amusement  of  adventnie, — all  these  moods  of  simple 
wonderment  are  told  and  snng  in  its  enchanting  pages.  The  author  sent 
his  sonl  through  the  visible  to  spell  the  secret  of  onr  earthly  life;  and 
his  sonl  returned  to  him  erelong  with  that  deep  message  thus  simply 
phrased  by  Bobert  Brownings  in  his  most  serene  of  poems : — 

All  is  beauty: 
And  knowing  this,  is  love;  and  love  is  duty. 
What  further  may  be  sought  for  or  declared? 

Because  of  a  pitiable  tendency  to  degeneration  in  our  speech,  many 
lofty  words,  like  homely,  for  example,  have  taken  on  a  mean  and  vulgar 
connotation.  Another  word  which  thus  has  suffered  is  the  magic  adjec- 
tive amateur.  In  the  original  and  undefiled  sense  of  the  word,  Mr. 
Grahame^s  work  is  worthy  mainly  because  it  is  irradiated  by  the  spirit 
of  the  amateur.  He  writes  because  he  loves  to :  he  is  too  child-like  and 
playful  to  subside  into  the  mere  professional  man  of  letters.  The  Wind 
in  the  Willows  is  fun  to  read  because  the  author  wrote  it  for  fun.  It 
ranges  through  all  the  moods  of  natural  enjoyment:  it  is  humorous  and 
beautiful,  it  combines  satire  with  sentiment,  it  is  serious  and  jocund.  An 
uproarious  chapter,  which  satirizes  the  modem  subservience  to  the  latest 
fad,  is  followed  by  a  chapter  in  which,  mystically,  we  are  brought  face  to 
face  with  the  very  God  of  out-of-doors.  Mr.  Grahame  talks  in  whatever 
mood  most  enchants  him  at  the  time :  his  range  is  as  various  and  as  free 
as  the  aeolian  breathing  of  the  wind  in  the  willows. 

The  actors  in  the  present  rambling  narrative  bear  the  names  of  ani- 
mals; and  a- certain  inconsistency  may  be  noted  in  the  handling  of  them 
At  times  they  are  endowed  with  human  traits  and  used  to  satirize  the 
foibles  of  mankind;  and  at  other  times  they  are  exhibited  as  animals  in- 
deed, and  are  used  to  reveal  an  infra-human  view  of  life.  This  incon- 
sistency is  sometimes  jarring;  and  as  a  consequence,  the  critic  is  moved 
to  set  the  book  on  a  plane  a  little  lower  than  that  of  the  perfect  exposi- 
tions of  the  mood  of  wonder, — ^like  Alice  in  Wonderland,  for  example. 

Ten  years  ago,  before  his  disquieting  silence,  Mr.  Grahame  demon- 
strated that  he  held  command  of  the  most  finished  and  perfected  English 
prose  style  that  had  been  listened  to  since  Stevenson's.  The  Wind  in  the 
Willows  is  written  in  the  same  style,  ripened  and  matured.  To  be  a  great 
artist  is,  of  course,  a  lesser  thing  than  to  be  an  undiscouragable  child; 
but  it  is  reassuring  to  record  that  Mr.  Grahame  is  the  one  as  well  as  the 
other.  We  need  him,  both  to  play  with  and  to  listen  to.  Those  of  us 
who  refuse  to  grow  up  and  forget  are  banking  On  his  future.  May  he  fulfil 
bi3  future^  even  if  he  has  to  neglect  his  Bank  I 

Walter  Clayton. 





It  is  the  fate  of  fiction,  as  the  youngest  product  of  literary  evolution, 
to  he  still  the  least  stable  of  all  the  recognized  forms,  the  most  ambiguous 
as  to  scope  and  purpose  and  method,  the  most  prone  to  sudden  and 
startling  innovations.  Accordingly,  while  the  importance  of  fiction  as  a 
whole  has  long  since  passed  beyond  debatable  grounds,  it  must  be  frankly 
conceded  that  no  other  literary  form  approaches  it  in  the  production 
of  volumes  which  the  student  of  letters  may  conveniently  ignore.  Poetry, 
essays,  criticism,  are  hedged  around  with  certain  saf^uards,  seldom 
finding  their  way  into  book  form  unless  some  one  in  the  course  of  the 
process  believes  to  have  discovered  in  them  evidence  of  literary  and  artistic 
worth — and  the  same  may  be  said  of  published  drama,  thanks  to  a  popu- 
lar prejudice  against  reading  plays.  But  so  long  as  the  dastic  and 
much-abused  term,  novel,  continues  to  be  stretched  to  cover  both  the 
story  that  is  literature  and  the  story  that  is  merely  merchandise — ^the  work 
of  Henry  James  and  Maurice  Hewlett,  as  well  as  of  Marie  Corelli  or 
Archibald  Clavering  Gunter — ^just  so  long  the  critic  must  hesitate  to 
single  out  any  of  the  current  fiction  as  a  ^'novel  of  some  importance," 
at  least  until  he  has  rather  carefully  defined  the  principles  upon  which 
its  claims  to  such  distinction  are  to  be  determined. 

In  the  first  place,  then,  it  seems  only  just  to  demand  that  a  novelist, 
in  order  to  make  good  his  title  to  be  recognized,  even  provisionally,  as  of 
some  importance,  shall  have  contributed  something  new  and  original, 
something  quite  his  own,  that  seems  likely  to  leave  its  mark,  no  matter 
how  slight,  upon  the  fiction  of  the  future.  The  innovation  may  be  merely 
some  detail  of  technique,  worked  out  in  a  new  and  daring  manner;  it 
may  be  the  creation  of  a  new  type  of  character;  it  may  be  the  formula 
of  a  new  school  of  fiction;  in  any  case,  whether  the  novelist  is  a  Conan 
Doyle,  with  a  subtle  trick  for  improving  the  Poe  detective  story;  or  a 
William  J.  Locke,  with  a  Beloved  Vagabond;  or  an  Emile  Zola,  with  a 
Eougon-Macquart  series  and  a  new  literary  creed,  we  are  justified  in 
bestowing  conditionally  the  meed  of  praise  conveyed  by  that  none  too 
generous  formula,  "some  importance."  But  at  the  same  time,  let  us 
carefiilly  bear  in  mind  that  the  wideness  of  appeal,  the  popular  success, 
the  business  profit  of  the  transaction,  is  absolutely  beside  the  question.  From 
the  critical  point  of  view,  Jane  Austen  is  a  more  significant  figure  in  the 
history  of  fiction  than  Sir  Walter  Scott,  although  she  was  scarcely  read 
by  her  contemporaries;  Stendhal  at  least  bears  even  honors  with  Balzac, 


although  he  had  to  wait  half  a  century  longer  for  recognition ;  and  to-day, 
although  George  Barr  McCutcheon  often  finds  a  place  among  the  ''Six 
Best  Sellers,"  and  Joseph  Conrad  does  not,  that  does  not  alter  the  fact 
that  Lord  Jim  is  a  novel  of  some  importance  and  that  Beverly  of  Oraus- 
tarh  is  not.  Of  course,  if  a  novel  of  real  artistic  merit  happens  also  to 
contain  the  elements  of  popularity,  so  much  the  better,  because  its  influ- 
ence is  thereby  correspondingly  increased;  and  its  imitators  will  prob- 
ably help  to  give  permanence  to  the  real  merits,  which  perhaps  they  do 
not  perceive,  along  with  the  more  superficial  qualities,  which  they  delib- 
erately copy. 

Furthermore,  it  does  not  follow,  because  a  novelist  has,  after  many 
years,  deservedly  attained  the  foremost  rank,  that  every  volume  he  pro- 
duces must  necessarily  be  a  novel  of  importance.  It  may  very  well 
happen  that  even  a  Meredith  or  a  Hardy,  a  Maupassant  or  a  Bourget 
may  occasionally  produce  a  volume  which,  although  written  with  the 
accustomed  care  and  skill,  has  nothing  vital  to  say,  no  new  message,  no 
perceptible  advance  upon  his  earlier  work.  In  fact,  to  the  zealous  student 
of  modern  fiction  there  is  apt  to  be  more  real  profit  from  studying  the 
new  writers  than  the  veterans — for  to  the  new  writers  belongs  the  boldness 
of  innovation;  and  it  is  seldom  that  a  writer  has  ever  attained  general 
recognition  without  his  early  stories  having  been  recognized  as  really 
important,  by  at  least  a  few  discerning  critics. 

With  this  definition  of  the  adjective  "important"  kept  carefully  in 
mind,  it  may  be  said  unhesitatingly  that  a  surprisingly  small  proportion 
of  the  season's  new  fiction  can  make  good  its  claim  to  recognition.  Unde- 
niably it  has  been  what  might  be  called  an  ''off-season"  in  novels.  There 
are,  however,  just  a  few  volumes,  which  the  average  reader  is  quite  likely 
to  miss,  and  which,  nevertheless,  to  those  interested  in  the  technique  of 
fiction,  offer  some  fairly  valid  reasons  for  consideration.  And  first 
among  these  is  When  the  Tide  Turns,  by  Filson  Young.*  By  those  who 
know  him  at  all,  Mr.  Young  will  be  remembered  as  the  author  of  The 
Sands  of  Pleasure,  a  rather  shapeless  and  overgrown  story,  which  never- 
theless contained  some  wholesome  philosophy  of  life,  a  few  vivid  pictures 
of  the  Paris  Latin  Quarter,  and  a  single  character,  a  woman,  whose 
laughing,  mocking  voice  simply  refuses  to  be  forgotten.  While  his  new 
volume  does  not  show  any  notable  gain  in  technique,  it  does  give  addi- 
tional evidence  of  strong  originality,  keen  vision,  and  an  almost  defiant 
independence  of  judgment.  The  special  theme  of  the  book  is  the  career 
of   an   erratic  young   artist   whose   illustrations  have  suddenly   taken 

^When    the   Tide    Tuma,     By   Filson    Young.     Boston:    Dana,   Estes    and 


London  by  storm ;  and  then,  because  his  whole  creed  is  summed  up  in 
the  familiar  catch  words  ''art  for  art's  sake,"  he  unintentionally  runs 
counter  to  established  conventions  both  in  his  professional  work  and  in 
his  private  life — and  the  ebbing  tide  of  popularity  leaves  him  stranded. 
With  admirable  impersonality,  Mr.  Young  refrains  from  passing  judg- 
ment, but  it  would  seem  as  though  both  in  this  and  in  his  earlier  novel 
the  particular  philosophy  he  would  preach  is  best  summed  up  in  the 
words  of  one  of  his  characters : 

Nothing  that  a  man  does  of  his  own  choice  does  him  any  harm,  provided 
he  sees  all  round  it,  and  knows  if  it  is  good  or  bad.  It  is  the  knowing  that  mat- 
ters, not  the  doing. 

An  equally  unconventional  attitude  toward  a  familiar  situation  serves 
to  emphasize  the  slim  little  volume,  The  Oorgeous  Isle^  which  is  Gertrude 
Atherton's  sole  contribution  to  this  year's  fiction.  The  familiar  situation 
is  this :  a  certain  man  has  been  steadily  drinking  himself  to  death.  A 
certain  woman  loves  him  well  enough  to  run  the  risk  of  marrjring  him 
on  the  chance  of  bringing  about  a  reformation.  They  are  married ;  he 
keeps  his  word  and  his  health  is  re-established.  But  it  happens  that 
this  man  is  a  poet,  who  is  able  to  give  the  world  immortal  verse,  pro- 
vided he  continues  the  use  of  alcohol.  The  choice  lies  between  a  long 
life  of  stagnation  and  a  few  brief  years  of  meteoric  glory.  Has  the 
woman  the  right  to  rob  the  world  of  great  literature  for  the  sake  of 
one  man's  physical  welfare?  Mrs.  Atherton's  solution  at  least  opens 
up  some  interesting  discussions. 

Anthony  Hope  has  not  infrequently  produced  volumes  of  some  impor- 
tance, for  he  has  an  inborn  tendency  toward  trying  experiments.  His 
latest  volume,  The  Or  eat  Miss  Driver,^  is  of  interest  to  the  professional 
critic  mainly  on  the  side  of  its  technique;  because,  whether  consciously 
or  not,  he  has  consistently  applied  Mr.  Henry  James'  extreme  method 
of  unity  in  point  of  view,  and  what  is  more,  has  done  the  trick  so  cleverly 
that  unless  you  are  deliberately  searching  for  it  you  will  not  notice  that 
from  beginning  to  end  he  tells  us  absolutely  nothing  concerning  the 
Great  Miss  Driver  save  what  is  personally  known  to  a  single  one  of  the 
subordinate  characters.  But  the  book  achieves  one  other  thing  of  more 
general  interest.  In  the  character  of  Jennie  Driver  it  creates  a  type 
new  to  fiction — the  type  of  woman  so  greedy  of  adulation  and  of  power 
that  she  cannot  bear  to  lose  the  homage  of  even  the  most  despicable 

^The  Gorgeous  Isle.  By  Gertrude  Atherton.  New  York:  Doubleday,  Page 
and  Company. 

*The  Great  Miss  Driver,  By  Anthony  Hope.  New  York:  The  McClure 


of  men;  who  rather  than  sacrifice  any  part  of  her  social  sway  allows 
herself  to  insnlt  publicly  the  only  man  she  loves;  and  then  when  it  is  too 
late  to  make  atonement  to  him  achieves  a  vengeance  on  the  little  world 
she  moves  in  so  complete  and  lasting  that  it  will  go  down  to  history. 
The  Great  Miss  Driver  is  likely  to  be  definitely  placed  as  the  best  of 
Anthony  Hope's  serions  efforts. 

The  Immortal  Moment^  by  May  Sinclair,  is  another  of  those  books 
whose  importance  will  be  most  appreciated  by  the  reader  with  a  keen 
eye  for  careful  technique.  There  is  nothing  original  in  the  underlying 
plot.  A  woman  whose  mode  of  life  has  for  years  placed  her  beyond  the 
pale  of  society  suddenly  through  the  connivance  of  chance  wins  the 
sincere  love  and  respect  of  a  good  man,  who,  in  ignorance  of  her  past, 
offers  her  marriage.  As  it  happens,  she  also  loves  sincerely;  and  she  is 
so  hungry  for  peace  and  happiness  and  the  shelter  of  a  home  that  she 
might  have  kept  up  the  deception  had  not  the  man's  first  wife  left  him 
a  child.  But  because  she  feels  herself  unfit  to  play  the  role  of  mother 
to  this  child,  she  attains  what  Miss  Sinclair  calls  her  Immortal  Moment, 
in  which,  having  told  him  the  truth,  she  takes  her  life.  And  this  is 
absolutely  all  there  is  to  the  plot.  The  importance  of  the  book  lies  in 
the  rare  artistry  of  its  construction.  The  setting  is  a  fashionable  hotel 
on  the  Continent,  the  woman  is  shown  to  us  in  quite  the  casual  way  in 
which  we  might  make  the  acquaintance  of  any  fellow-tourist  on  a  sum- 
mer's jaunt  through  Europe.  We  catch  stray  glimpses  of  her  in  the 
hotel  corridor,  in  the  dining-room,  out  in  the  public  streets ;  we  overhear 
the  curious  gossip  about  her,  admiring,  envious,  malicious  by  turns.  But 
who  and  what  she  really  is  we  have  no  better  way  of  knowing  than  had 
the  man  himself  whose  whole  happiness  in  life  was  to  hinge  upon  this 
knowledge.  And  because  of  this  very  perfect  piece  of  technique,  The  Im- 
mortal Moment  must  remain  a  book  of  some  importance  to  all  makers 
of  fiction  who  are  striving  after  a  similar  method  of  construction. 

There  is  one  more  recent  book  which  deserves  a  brief  word  of  com- 
mendation as  offering  the  claim  of  some  importance  to  the  readers  as  well 
as  to  the  writers  of  novels — Friendship  Village,^  by  Zona  Gale.  Struc- 
turally, it  is  hardly  a  novel  at  all,  merely  a  series  of  episodes  bound 
together  by  the  loosest  of  threads — and  yet  the  book  leaves  upon  you  much 
that  same  sense  of  unity  of  impression  that  one  gets  by  actually  living  month 
after  month  in  some  small,  remote  New  England  town  where  all  your 

^The  Immortal  Moment.  By  May  Sinclair.  New  York:  Doubleday,  Page 
and  Company 

^Friendship    Village,      By    Zona      Gale.      New    York:     The    Ma^millan 



neighbors  know  more  of  you  than  you  know  of  yourself — call  it  Friend- 
ship Village  or  whatever  other  name  best  pleases  you.  There  have  been 
many  other  writers  who  have  attempted  to  portray  New  England  village 
types  with  the  minute  fidelity  of  a  Jane  Austen,  but  the  work  of 
Mrs.  Wilkins  Freeman  may  be  cited  as  typifying  all  these  attempts  by 
the  prevailing  sombre  colors  of  her  pictures,  the  note  of  monotony  and 
hopelessness,  the  pervading  strain  of  pessimism.  Miss  Gale's  Friendship 
Village  J  on  the  contrary,  is  as  optimistic  as  the  song  of  a  skylark;  yet 
for  all  that  she  sees  life  none  the  less  truly  as  it  really  is.  It  is  fraught 
with  sympathetic  understanding  and  cheerful  friendliness  and,  what 
is  perhaps  equally  rare,  it  possesses  a  very  genuine  charm  of  style. 



This  is  the  face  they  let  me  bring  you  home. 
The  face  you  used  to  love  and  used  to  kiss. 
Calling  it  beautiful.     For  that  light  word 
I  lost  my  soul.     Is  it  a  thing  for  smiles? 
For  you,  I  know — ^before  these  cheeks  and  lips 
Had  been  so  marked,  you  used  to  say  my  laugh 
Was  like  a  sun-burst.     Now  I  dare  not  smile — 
No,  dare  not.     Hideous,  more  hideous — 
You  would  not  shrink  from  any  vilest  thing 
More  surely  than  the  smile  you  used  to  call — 
You  were  a  lover  once.    I  was  half  crazed 
To  be  so  loved,  to  have  such  flowers  of  speech 
Fashioned  for  me,  and  now — oh,  you  may  go. 
May  leave  me  here  a  scarred  and  wretched  thing. 
Just  as  you  please.    I  know  I  could  not  be 
More  than  a  ghost  beside  the  banquet  board. 
Where  once,  a  month  ago,  if  I  had  gone. 
You  would  have  been  as  proud  as  any  knight 
Presenting  princes  to  his  queen  of  love. 
There  have  been  women  neither  young  nor  fair 
Whom  still  you  would  have  taken  and  been  glad. 
Because,  perhaps — ^I  knew  the  time  must  come 
When  I  should  envy  them  their  wit,  their  talk. 
Their  finer  graces  of  the  mind  and  heart. 


Such  women^  women  whom  I  used  to  see 

With  foolish  pity.    You  who  told  me  then 

That  being  beautifid^  no  more  than  that^ 

Was  aU  a  woman's  duty,  art,  or  need. 

You  who  so  dared  deceive  me,  tell  me  now 

What  shall  a  woman  do  who  loses  all. 

Who  starves  her  mind  to  nothing,  shrivels  up 

The  better  instincts  of  her  heart,  and  dwarfs 

Her  very  nature,  just  because  one  man 

Tells  her  be  beautiful,  be  nothing  else? 

What  then  when  in  a  little  week,  a  day. 

That  beauty  that  was  all  slips  like  a  mask 

That  hides  a  death's-head  and  she  looks  and  sees 

No  friend,  no  lover  ?    Oh,  you  cannot  know 

How  horrible,  how  terrible — I  think 

You  would  not  sit  there  with  that  dull  disgust. 

Half  tolerating  what  I  suffer  too. 

Because  you  soon  will  laugh  with  all  the  gay, 

Who  ask  but  idly  for  your  wife  at  home. 

It  is  an  hour  before  you  need  to  dress. 
Qive  me  that  hour.    Let  us  turn  down  the  light. 
In  the  half  darkness,  am  I  not  the  same? 
My  voice,  the  voice  you  praised,  is  just  as  low. 
My  eyes, — ^if  you  could  see  but  just  my  eyes 
Here  in  the  shadows, — ^if  your  eyes  could  smile, 
I  think  that  they  might  glow  as  once  they  used. 
Seeing  the  love  you  gave  them.    You  forget. 
Or  would  forget,  with  me  forgetting  too. 
That  what  I  am  you  made  me.    Years  ago. 
Before  my  life  had  felt  the  touch  of  yours, 
I  dreamed  of  things,  I  had  some  thoughts  worth  while. 
And  something  of  the  glory  of  the  world. 
With  all  God  meant  that  we  should  be  and  do. 
Held  me  at  times  as  in  a  trance  of  fear. 
Of  fear  and  joy  and  wonder  and  resolve. 
You  never  knew,  of  course  you  could  not  know; 
But  I  remember  once,  a  night  with  stars. 
When  the  great  world  was  sleeping  like  a  babe, 
We  walked,  Jerome  and  I,  across  a  marsh. 
Along  a  causeway,  while  the  water  oozed 



In  little  puddles^  where  we  saw  the  heavens 
A  strange  sweet  beauty  in  the  nniddy  pools. 
We  had  been  talking — no,  that  let  me  keep; 
But  I  remember  when  we  reached  the  end 
We  tamed  and  looked  and  saw  a  thousand  lights 
There  in  the  city.    Something  held  us  both, 
A  hush  in  that  immensity  of  space. 
The  deep,  still  darkneRS  and  the  souls  on  souls 
Enwrapped  within  it^  life  within  a  pall. 
And  something  seemed  to  catch  me,  bear  me  on 
To  those  great  wishes  that  the  saints  have  felt 
Before  the  sin  and  struggle,  pain  and  doubt. 
Through  which  the  himian  gropes  to  the  divine. 
I  think,  that  night,  if  he  had  only  dared, — 
Ah,  God^  if  he  had  said  the  one  great  word. 
And  held  me  with  a  little  mortal  love 
To  all  the  immortalities  I  felt ! 
I  should  not  then  have  flung  myself  away 
And  lost  the  things  I  was  and  might  have  been 
For  this  mad  life—if  you  could  understand — 
You  do  not  care  that  I  have  empty  hands. 
That  now,  too,  I  must  have  an  empty  heart 
Fed  with  the  husks  of  kindness  only  felt 
As  something  irksome.     Going?    Are  you  sure 
You  might  not  stay  at  home  and  not  be  missed? 
I  would  not  have  you  stay.    Go,  leave  me,  go  I 
If  you  can  laugh,  our  common  cup  of  joy 
Is  fuller,  though  the  dregs  are  fdl  my  share. 

Of  course  you  would  not  leave  me  here  alone. 
If  it  were  possible  for  me  to  go. 
Or  even  possible  for  you  to  stay. 
Why  make  apologies?    Do  I  not  know 
The  dull  companionship  I  have  to  give? 
Besides^  I  need  to  think^  aad  I  must  learn 
To  shape  a  new  life  for  the  old  I  lose. 
I  half  conceive  the  part  I  have  to  play. 
Because  I  know  we  need  not  talk  of  love 
After  this  hour.    That  somehow  makes  me  free 
To  gather  up  those  threads  of  old  intent 
Too  doubtfully  drawn  out^  and  weave  again 


A  something  beautiful^  the  thing  I  was, 

The  thing  I  might  have  been  before  you  came^ 

As  I  dare  still  beiieye — ^and  then^  and  then — 

You  will  not  see^  you  will  not  seem  to  care. 

Some  other  woman  with  bold  laughing  eyes 

And  cheeks  half  red  with  blood  below  the  rouge 

And  piled  hair  for  the  smiles  to  glow  beneath^ 

Some  woman  with  a  breast  as  full  and  warm 

And  limbs  as  roundly  splendid  and  a  step 

That  springs  as  freely  with  as  great  a  joy 

And  lips  as  bravely  human  with  the  pulse 

Of  singing  life — ^and  then  these  cheeks,  these  cheeks  1 

You  ought  to  pity  me.    I  hate  her  now. 

She  should  not  dare  be  beautiful  for  you 

When  I  have  nothing,  I  who  need  so  much. 

Because  you  taught  me  how  to  ask  and  have. 

And  now,  and  now — of  course  I  shall  not  ask 

Or  seem  to  care — how  could  I  with  this  face? 

Go;  there  are  pretty  women  dressing,  too. 

Choosing  the  jewels  for  their  round,  white  necks 

That  you  may  see  them  as  they  pause  and  pass 

And  love  them  idly, — ^all  the  evening  through 

Forgetting  me,  as  if — ^there  is  no  hell, 

Ood  could  not  make  a  hell  beyond  to-night 

While  I  sit  waiting  in  the  quiet  house 

To  catch  your  step — I  should  have  died,  have  died 

Bather  than  never  hear  you  any  morel 

Tell  me  how  beautiful  I  looked.    There  are — 

I  cannot  tell  how  many — ^thousands,  yes. 

More  beautiful,  and  you  will  praise  them,  too; 

And  I  must  know  it,  fed  it,  every  hour, 

And  curse  them  every  moment  like  a  fiend 

Shrieking  in  torments.     Oh,  these  cheeks,  these  cheeks  1 

I  wish — ^if  God  could  only  make  you  blind. 

You  might  forget — and  I — these  poor,  scarred  cheeks  1 

No,  leave  the  gas  turned  down  and  let  me  stay 
Here  in  the  darkness.    You  can  face  the  glow. 
Faultlessly  dressed  and  faultless  in  yourself. 
It  is  the  darkness  brings  the  truth  to  light; 
It  shuts  away  so  many  things  untrue, 



So  many  mockeries,  8o  many  shows 

That  lure  and  trick  the  fancy  to  our  hurt; 

And  after  all — I  think  that  makes  it  clear. 

I  needed  this,  I  needed  losing  you 

To  find  the  good  to  which  my  eyes  were  blind 

And  would  have  been  forever.   Leave  me,  go. 

Pour  out  your  tinkling  rill  of  compliment 

To  other  women.    While  I  sit  and  wait. 

Find  some  one  fairer;  let  your  fancy  fly 

In  brave  disdain  of  bonds  that  hurt  the  flesh. 

Call  yourself  free,  and  so  becoming  free. 

Kiss  the  first  fresh-lipped  girl  you  meet  and  dare 

Tell  her  the  lies  I  could  not  disbelieve; 

Make  her  believe  them — then — the  last  hard  truth — 

Tell  me  you  kissed  her.    So  I,  too,  am  free. 

And  out  of  freedom  I  shall  dare  aspire 

To  all  I  lost  in  girlhood,  all  I  lost, — 

It  seems  so  far  away,  so  wholly  lost. 

And  nothing  left  me,  nothing, — oh,  these  cheeks. 

This  loneliness,  this  being  so  afraid ! 

Lewis  Worthington  Smith, 

Tiie  F3rutn 

February,  1909 




Pbesident  Booseyslt  is  going  out  of  office  amid  turmoil  and  splutter. 
Every  day  has  its  new  sensation.  Not  since  the  time  when  Mr.  Cleve- 
land's second  administration  came  to  a  close  has  the  end  of  a  Presidential 
term  been  marked  by  so  much  excitement  as  exists  at  present.  The 
atmosphere,  not  alone  of  the  national  capital,  but  of  the  whole  country, 
is  surcharged  with  political  electricity.  The  President,  standing  well  out 
in  the  center  of  the  stage,  makes  it  evident  that  he  is  to  be  President 
until  the  last  moment  of  his  administration.  His  words,  his  actions,  his 
commands,  are,  after  all,  the  prime  factors  in  the  Lively  experiences  of  the 
past  few  weeks. 

When  on  the  fourth  of  next  March,  President  Boosevelt  lays  down  his 

cares  and  responsibilities,  one  of  the  most  remarkable  and  interesting 

chapters  in  American  political  history  will  be  finished. 

Important  For  seven  eventful  years,  Mr.  Boosevelt  has  administered 

Laws  the  affairs  of  the  nation  as  its  chief  executive  and  during 

Secured  ^jr^i  tijne  he  has  impressed  himself  upon  the  country 

with   more   force    and   individuality   than   has   been 

equalled  in  many  years.    His  administration  has  been  marked  by  extreme 

aggressiveness.    His  active  and  perceptive  mind  has  intuitively,  not  to 

say  impulsively,  grasped  the  thing  desired  and  his  positive,  determined 

character  has  secured  accomplishment.    It  is  no  exaggeration  to  say  that 

until  his  successor  was  actually  chosen,  he  dominated  Congress.    If  he 

wanted  legal  regulation  of  the  railroads,  Congress  enacted  the  requisite 

Permisnon  to  republish  oHides  is  reserved 


laws;  if  he  appealed  for  a  larger  navy  and  especially  for  additional  battle- 
ships^ Congress  supplied  the  demand;  if  he  asked  for  an  employers' 
liability  law.  Congress  handed  it  to  him  on  a  silver  platter;  and  when  he 
gave  notice  that  a  law  affording  elasticity  as  well  as  stability  to  the  cur- 
rency must  be  given  to  the  coimtry.  Congress  acted  with  prompt  acquies- 
cence. It  is  true  that  jiist  at  the  present  time  there  is  a  different  feeling 
in  Congress;  but  none  the  less,  the  veiy  ezistenoe  of  the  present  antago- 
nistic sentiment  only  emphasizes  the  opposite  attitude  which  was  manifest 
as  long  as  Mr.  Boosevelt  was  the  occupant  of  the  White  House  for  an 
imcertain  length  of  time. 

It  is,  indeed,  a  matter  of  no  little  interest  to  recall,  now  that  the 
administration  is  drawing  to  a  close,  how  closely  Congress  has  fol- 
lowed the  recommendations  of  the  President.  The  railroad  rate  law,  the 
employers*  liability  law  and  the  currency  law  have  already  been  men- 
tioned. It  was  upon  his  suggestion,  too,  that  the  Department  of  Com- 
merce and  Labor  was  created,  a  department  which  has  already  taken 
foremost  rank  among  the  executive  branches  of  the  Government.  He  was 
an  earnest  advocate  of  the  pure  food  bill  and  it  was  due  to  him  that 
more  effective  national  control  was  given  to  the  beef  packing  industiy. 
He  urged,  almost  from  the  very  beginning  of  his  administration,  the 
passage  of  a  law,  now  upon  the  statute  books,  which  would  prohibit  the 
contributions  of  corporations  to  the  campaign  expenses  of  any  party;  and 
his  appeal  for  the  publicity  of  campaign  receipts  and  expenditures  has 
resulted  in  the  establishment  of  a  custom  that  wiU  not  be  ignored  by  any 
political  organization  in  the  future.  He  has  asked,  as  a  matter  of  course, 
for  some  legislation  which  has  not  yet  been  enacted,  such  as  an  inheritance 
and  income  tax  and  a  postal  savings  bank  system,  but  the  record  of  his 
achievement  in  securing  the  enactment  of  laws  which  he  especially  advo- 
cated IB  unequalled  in  any  previous  administration.  The  fact  that  at  this 
late  day  he  has  encountered  some  opposition  in  Congress  only  emphasizes 
the  great  results  which  have  been  accomplished  in  the  past. 

It  would  be  impossible  within  the  limits  of  a  brief  article  to  deal  fully 
with  the  details  of  an  administration  so  filled  with  multitudinous  activities 

as  the  seven  years  during  which  Mr.  Boosevelt  has  been 
The  Versatility  ^  *^®  White  House.  If  there  is  one  thing  which,  more 
of  the  than  another,  impresses  itself  upon  the  observer  it  is  the 

President  enormous  amount  of  work  which  the  President  has  f  otmd 

time  to  do.  Speeches  on  innumerable  topics,  important 
state  documents,  letters  on  varied  subjects — ^all  these  have  demonstrated 
his  untiring  industry  in  the  matter  of  written  and  spoken  utterance. 


These,  however,  have  been  a  small  part  of  the  almost  inexhaustible  record. 
Take,  for  instance,  the  settlement  of  the  coal  strike — ^an  inspiration  which 
led  him  to  create  a  commission  which  dealt  successfully  with  a  menacing 
situation.  His  proposal  to  settle  the  Japanese-Bussian  War  was  another 
stroke  of  genius,  elevating  him  in  a  single  hour  from  the  position  of  a 
national  ruler  to  that  of  an  international  arbitrator.  His  versatility  of 
interest  has  been  bewildering.  At  one  minute  he  is  o£E  to  Panama,  to 
inspect  personally  the  progress  of  an  enterprise  which  he  transformed 
from  a  dream  into  a  reality,  and  the  next  he  is  organizing  a  commission 
to  determine  whether  the  housing  conditions  of  the  poor  in  the  national 
capital  can  be  improved.  N"o  task  was  too  great  to  deter  him,  no  detail  too 
small  to  escape  his  attention.  It  was  due  to  his  prompt  and  effective 
co-operation  that  the  cable  across  the  Pacific  Ocean  is  to-day  an  accom- 
plished fact,  and  it  is  equally  true  that  if  it  were  not  for  him  the 
fourth-class  postmasters  would  stiU  be  outside  of  the  protection  of  the 
civil  service.  While  the  memory  of  the  conference  of  the  governors  at 
the  White  House  to  consider  the  conservation  of  our  natural  resources  is 
still  fresh  in  the  public  mind,  he  has  undertaken,  through  another  con- 
ference, to  secure  better  treatment  for  dependent  children.  While  these 
agencies  are  industriously  engaged,  another  commission  is  investigating 
the  conditions  of  the  farmer  with  the  view  of  devising  means  for  the 
alleviation  of  agricultural  conditions.  Meanwhile  the  work  which  perti- 
nently attaches  to  the  position  of  President  has  not  been  neglected.  There 
have  been  investigations  into  the  organization  and  conduct  of  tEe  execu- 
tive departments  and  there  has  been  infused  into  oflScial  life  a  sense  of 
responsibilily  and  conscientiousness  hitherto  unknown. 

The  President's  fertile  brain  and  perceptive  mind  have  been  supple- 
mented by  a  physical  condition  which  has  been  kept  in  perfect  trim  by 
constant  exercise.    In  the  entire  seven  years  of  strenuous 
Value  of  existence  he  has  not  known  a  single  day  of  illness.    If 

Perfect  it  had  not  been  for  this  rugged  and  iron-like  constitu- 

Healtfa  tion  he  would  have  long  since  succumbed  to  the  tremen- 

dous drafts  made  upon  his  vitality.  Even  as  it  is,  the 
wonder  is  that  he  has  endured  the  strain.  His  daily  routine  would  soon 
exhaust  a  man  of  average  physical  calibre.  Prom  the  moment  he  entered 
his  office  in  the  morning  until  the  hour  for  luncheon  there  would  be  an 
innumerable  stream  of  callers,  each  discussing  with  him  a  subject  of 
importance,  while  the  luncheon  simply  afforded  an  opportunity  to  transfer 
the  consideration  of  grave  questions  from  the  office  to  the  dining-room. 
More  work  was  then  followed  by  a  ride  of  many  miles  on  horseback,  while 



the  after-dinner  hours  were  made  the  oocaaion  for  lengthy  conferences 
impracticable  dnring  the  bnsj  moments  of  daylight  or  for  the  preparation 
of  speeches  or  messages  which  required  careful  thought.  Incessant,  per- 
sistent labor  has  been  the  secret  of  the  President's  achievements. 

Some  of  these  days,  when  a  competent  historian  writes  the  review  of 
President  Booserelf s  administration^  he  must,  perforce,  emphasize  the 
sturdy  health  of  the  President  as  a  most  important  factor  in  the  results 
achieved  by  the  administration.  The  President  has  never  been  compelled 
to  waver  in  the  steadfastness  of  his  purpose  because  of  bodily  ailments. 
His  natural  tenacity  and  courage  have  not  been  weakened  by  introspective 
consideration  of  his  physical  frame.  In  other  words,  he  has  been  able 
always  to  bring  to  the  consideration  of  his  work  a  mind  untrammelled  by 
bodily  ills.  To  this  perfection  of  physical  condition  he  has  added  a  re- 
sourceful and  active  mind,  together  with  a  temperament  whidi  lacked 
neither  firmness  nor  courage,  a  combination  certain  to  produce  great 

While  the  diversities  of  the  President's  mind  have  been  as  varied  as 
the  range  of  human  thought,  two  important  subjects  have  especially 
engrossed  his  attention.    The  first  is  the  attitude  of  the 
Attitude  Federal  Government  toward  corporations  which  enjoyed 

Toward  monopolistic  control  of  public  necessities,  and  the  second 

Corporations  jg  ^jj^  adjustment  of  the  problems  arising  from  the  rela- 
tions of  capital  and  labor.  His  initial  message  to  Con- 
gress dealt  largely  with  the  regulation  of  the  railroads  and,  particularly, 
the  abolition  of  railroad  rebates,  a  system  which  gave  undue  advantage 
to  the  already  greatly  favored  corporation.  ''Above  all  else,"  said  Mr. 
Boosevelt,  in  one  of  his  messages,  *Sve  must  strive  to  keep  the  highways 
of  commerce  open  to  all  on  equal  terms,  and  to  do  this  it  is  necessary  to 
put  a  complete  stop  to  all  rebates."  This  was  the  keynote  of  his  position 
in  the  matter  of  discriminative  charges.  His  language  regarding  ''those 
big  corporations  commonly  doing  an  interstate  business,  often  with  ten- 
dency to  monopoly,  which  are  popularly  known  as  trusts,"  was  very  clear 
and  emphatic.  To  quote  his  own  words,  he  drew  the  line  against  mis- 
conduct, not  against  wealth.  He  admitted  the  inviolability  of  property 
but  still  insisted  that  society  had  the  right  to  regulate  the  exercise  of  the 
artificial  powers  which  it  confers  upon  the  owners  of  property,  under  the 
name  of  corporate  franchises,  in  such  a  way  as  to  prevent  the  misuse  of 
those  powers.  "Corporations,  and  especially  combinations  of  corpora- 
tions," he  said,  "should  be  managed  under  public  regulation.  Experience 
has  shown  that  under  our  system  of  government  the  necessary  supervision 


cannot  be  obtained  by  State  action.  It  must  therefore  be  achieved  by 
national  action/*  He  disclaimed  any  hostility  to  corporations,  but  asserted 
that  the  evil  in  them  should  be  eliminated  and  that  they  should  be  so 
handled  as  to  subserve  the  public  good.  It  was  the  first  time  in  the 
history  of  our  country  that  such  sentiments  had  issued  from  the  White 
House,  and  throughout  the  seven  years  of  his  administration  Mr.  Boose- 
velt  has  hewn  steadily  to  the  line. 

While  perhaps  the  President  did  not  at  any  time  specifically  state  the 
reasons  which  actuated  him  in  the  course  which  he  has  pursued,  there  is 
no  doubt  that  he  realized  the  danger  which  might  threaten  the  nation 
if  some  curb  was  not  placed  upon  all-powerful,  selfish  and  aggrandizing^ 
corporations.  There  is  no  doubt  that  this  was  the  foundation  of  his 
action.  No  one  who  has  observed  the  drift  of  events  during  the  past  two 
decades  can  fail  to  believe  that  there  was  a  basis  for  the  belief  that  unless 
these  monopolies  were  forced  to  respect  the  power  of  the  people  they  would 
become  unbearable.  Socialism  and  discontent  were  growing  in  the  land. 
High  prices  for  necessaries  of  life,  due  to  the  formation  of  trusts,  were 
adding  to  the  burdens  of  the  poor.  It  needed  some  one  with  a  wise  fore- 
sight and  unshaken  courage  to  see  this  drift  and  check  it.  There  was 
danger,  of  course,  that  the  President's  position  would  be  misconstrued  and 
that  he  would  be  charged  with  demagoguery;  and  there  was  the  absolute 
certainty  that  he  would  arouse  the  antagonism  of  the  great  and  wealthy 
interests  which  sought  to  control.  The  result,  however,  has  fully  justified 
his  course.  The  trusts  have  learned  that  they  must  obey  the  law  and 
that  the  rights  of  the  people  must  be  respected.  The  enormous  popular 
vote  cast  for  Mr.  Eoosevelt  in  1904  and  the  demand  for  his  further  re- 
nomination  evidenced  the  appreciation  in  which  he  was  held  by  the  masses. 
It  is  also  interesting  and  significant  that  his  successor  was  elected  by  an 
overwhelming  majority  largely  because  he  announced  early  in  the  cam- 
paign that  he  would  carry  out  the  policies  which  Mr.  Boosevelt  had 

It  is  still  too  early  to  view  accurately  the  effect  of  Mr.  Eoosevelt^s  in- 
sistent demand  for  the  regulation  of  monopolistic  corporations.  He  cer- 
tainly averted  possible  dangers ;  he  brought  the  trusts  to  a  realizing  sense 
of  their  limitations  under  the  laws ;  and  he  weakened  the  strangle  hold 
which  the  trusts  had  upon  the  public.  If  he  has  done  nothing  else,  this 
much  is  great  achievement. 

No  other  President,  too,  has  been  so  fearless  in  his  treatment  of  the 
relations  between  capital  and  labor.  He  has  handled  the  question  without 
gloves,  stating  his  convictions  at  all  times  with  great  emphasis.    "Or- 



ganized  capital  and  organized  labor  alike/*  he  said  in  a  message  to 
the  Congress,  "should  remember  that  in  the  long  run  the  interest  of  each 

must  be  brought  into  harmony  with  the  interest  of  the 
Capital  general  public;  and  the  conduct  of  each  must  conform 

and  to  the  fundamental  rules  of  obedience  to  the  law,  of  in- 

Labor  dividual  freedom,  and  of  justice  and  fair  dealing  toward 

all.  .  .  .  Every  employer,  every  wage-worker,  must  be 
guaranteed  his  liberty  and  his  right  to  do  as  he  likes  with  his  property 
or  his  labor  so  long  as  he  does  not  infringe  upon  the  rights  of  others/' 
Nor  did  the  President  preach  and  fail  to  practise.  The  opportunity  to 
put  his  ideas  into  execution  presented  itself  when  the  question  of  the 
employment  of  a  non-union  printer  became  an  issue  in  the  Government 
printing  office.  This  may  seem  a  minor  matter;  but  it  should  be  remem- 
bered that  the  Government  printing  office,  the  largest  institution  of  its 
kind  in  the  world,  has  always  been  the  citadel  of  unionism  and  it  took 
considerable  nerve  to  attack  organized  labor  in  its  great  stronghold.  The 
President  did  not  hesitate.  ^There  is  no  objection,'*  he  said,  "to  em- 
ployees of  the  Government  forming  or  belonging  to  unions;  but  the  Gov- 
ernment can  neither  discriminate  for  nor  discriminate  against  non-union 
men  who  are  in  its  employment,  or  who  seek  to  be  employed  tmder  it/* 
This  was  a  new  doctrine  and  it  made  the  "open-shop"  possible. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  President's  earnest  sympathy  with  the  wage- 
worker  was  made  manifest  whenever  possible.  He  has  treated  the  subject 
exhaustively  in  all  of  his  messages  to  Congress.  He  has  urged  a  larger 
share  of  ownership  by  employees  of  railroads,  mills  and  factories.  He 
has  contended  for  provision  for  worn  out  and  crippled  worMngmen,  for 
the  prohibition  of  child  labor,  the  diminution  of  woman  labor  and  the 
shortening  of  hours  for  all  mechanical  labor.  The  employers*  liability 
bill  which  he  urged  upon  Congress  was  the  direct  result  of  his  eloquent 
appeals.  He  has  shown  his  interest  in  the  workingman,  when  that 
workingman  obeyed  the  law  and  respected  the  rights  of  others;  for  the 
workingman  who  did  neither  he  had  no  regard  whatever.  When  the 
history  of  this  administration  comes  to  be  written,  therefore,  the  utter- 
ances and  the  actions  of  President  Boosevelt  in  relation  to  capital  and 
labor  will  form  a  most  interesting  chapter  and  wUl  be  f oxmd  to  have 
created  a  new  era  in  our  political  existence. 

If,  therefore,  in  the  last  days  of  the  administration  differences  between 
the  President  and  the  Congress  should  have  unfortunately  arisen,  the  fact 
remains  that  for  seven  years  the  executive  and  the  legislative  branches  of 
the  Government  have  striven  hand  in  hand  for  the  social  and  material 


betferment  of  the  American  people.  This  is  the  record  that  will  stand. 
Disputes  oyer  the  actions  of  secret  seryioe^  abstract  questions  as  to  the 
right  of  the  Senate  to  demand  certain  reasons  for  executive  action — ^all 
these  and  other  troublesome  and  conflicting  matters  will  be  forgotten  when 
the  great  results  which  have  been  accomplished  are  still  potent  factors  in 
our  national  life. 

Henry  Litchfield  West. 

(Ehine  Valley) 


Web,  pretiy  jewels  have  I  three. 
Frolicking  under  the  chestnut  tree. 

Two  are  my  diamonds,  one  my  pearl — 
Those  are  my  boys  and  this  my  girl. 

My  oldest  shall  be  a  sergeant  tall 
With  a  walk  and  a  beard  like  a  general; 

And  an  arm  for  his  king  and  a  heart  for  a  wench. 
And  an  itch  in  his  bones  to  stick  the  French. 

My  second  shall  learn  the  ways  of  peace, 
Of  spreading  bloom  and  field^s  increase. 

Of  spade  and  hoe  and  clod  and  seed. 
Of  dropping  fruit  and  clinging  weed. 

Not  much  he'll  know  of  war  and  fame — 
But  every  bud  he'll  call  by  name. 

Oh,  and  the  youngest,  oh,  my  pride, 
'Tis  she  will  stay  at  her  mothers  side. 

With  broom  and  kettle  and  rag  and  pan 
Till  the  good  Lord  send  her  a  gardener-man. 

And  a  lodge  and  children  two  or  three 
Frolicking  under  a  chestnut  tree. 

Hermann  Hagedom. 




(Professor  of  European  Diplomatic  History,  Northwestern  University) 

ViCTOB  Hugo  once  remarked  that  when  a  person  was  killed  in  France, 
it  was  called  murder.  But  when  fifty  thousand  people  were  massacred 
in  the  Ottoman  Empire,  it  was  called  a  question.  For  over  four  centuries 
the  Turk  has  had  his  foot  on  European  soil  and  his  rule  has  been  considered 
a  disgrace  to  the  civilized  world;  yet  it  is  still  a  "question**  whether  he 
will  permanently  reform  or  be  forced  out  of  Europe  altogether. 

By  the  trealy  of  Calowitz  in  1699  definite  limits  were  set  to  the  Sul- 
tanas possessions  in  Southeastern  Europe.  They  then  reached  from  the 
river  Dnieper  to  the  Adriatic  Sea,  and  from  Belgrade  on  the  Danube  and 
the  Transylvanian  Alps  to  the  southern  confines  of  Greece.  Since  those 
days  the  European  powers  have  been  steadily  forcing  the  Turks  back- 
ward toward  the  Bosphorus. 

Greece  secured  its  independence  in  1829  and  the  Ottoman  dominions 
were  reduced  to  the  region  known  as  the  '^Balkans.**  This  stretches  from 
the  Black  to  the  Adriatic  Sea,  and  from  the  lower  Danube,  the  Transyl- 
vanian moimtains  and  the  river  Pruth  to  the  northern  boundary  of 
Greece  and  the  iEgean  Sea.  It  occupies  an  area  of  196,712  square  miles 
— slightly  less  than  that  of  Spaia  and  more  than  the  combined  size  of  the 
States  of  Minnesota,  Iowa  and  Wisconsin.  Its  position  on  the  highway  be- 
tween Europe  and  Asia  is  unique.  Possessing  considerable  natural  wealth, 
an  extended  coast-line,  and  excellent  harbors  withia  easy  reach  of  those 
of  Russia,  Italy,  Asia  Minor  and  Africa,  there  is  no  reason  why  it  should 
not  have  become,  long  ere  this,  one  of  the  great  commercial  centres  of 
Europe,  if  its  peoples  had  had  a  fair  chance. 

But  it  has  been  the  battle-field  of  the  nations.  And,  like  the  more 
familiar  examples  of  Germany,  Italy  and  Poland,  it  has  suffered  for  cen- 
turies from  invasion,  from  the  ambition  of  European  powers,  from  the 
local  differences  and  animosities  of  its  inhabitants,  and  from  constant  and 
deliberate  misrule  and  oppression.  It  has  been  the  last  portion  of  Europe 
to  receive  the  blessings  of  modem  constitutional  self-government,  peace 
and  an  enlightened  internal  development — all  but  ill-fated  ''Macedonia." 

The  remarkable  development  along  commercial,  industrial  and  politi- 


cal  lines  in  Germany  and  Italy  is  well  known.  But  the  equally  astonish- 
ing progress,  during  the  same  period,  in  those  Balkan  states  whose  inde- 
pendence was  recognized  in  1878,  has  been  little  noticed  by  the  world  at 

Boumania  was  the  first  to  secure  local  autonomy  as  a  state.  And  this 
not  at  the  hands  of  the  European  Concert,  but  rather  in  spite  of  the 
wishes  of  the  prime  movers  in  Near-Eastern  politics.  By  the  treaty  of 
1856  the  provinces  of  Moldavia  and  Wallachia  were  given  separately  the 
administration  of  their  own  affairs  under  Turkish  suzerainty.  They 
requested  the  privilege  of  forming  a  united  government,  but  the  powers 
in  a  conference  at  London  voted  against  it.  In  1859,  however,  the  two 
districts  elected  the  same  person — Colonel  Couza — as  governor;  and  in 
1862  the  joint  administration  was  quietly  consummated.  Prince  Charles 
of  HohenzoUem-Sismaringen  was  chosen  nder  upon  the  forced  retire- 
ment of  Couza  in  1866 ;  and  the  kingdom  of  Boumania  created,  though 
not  oflScially  recognized  till  1878. 

Under  the  sane  and  efficient  rule  of  King  Charles,  the  country  has 
made  a  noteworthy  advance  along  all  lines.  With  an  area  about  equal  to 
that  of  Louisiana  and  a  population  of  6,500,000,  its  yearly  budget  now 
approximates  $41,667,000.  In  1905  its  exports  amounted  to  $76,184,000 
and  imports  to  $56,256,000.  Besides  a  national  militia,  a  standing  army 
of  65,000  men  and  an  annual  war  budget  of  $7,500,000  are  maintained. 
The  army  can  readily  be  raised  to  a  war-footing  of  350,000  men. 
There  are  1,831  miles  of  railway,  4,523  miles  of  telegraph,  and  17,200 
miles  of  telephone  now  in  operation.  An  important  commercial  port  has 
been  established  at  Constantza ;  and  great  intelligence  has  been  shown  in 
the  development  of  forestry  preserves,  agricultural  and  mining  resources, 
and  in  the  protection  of  petroleum  and  other  industrial  interests. 

Boumania — economically  and  politically — ^is  now  the  leading  state  in 
the  Balkans;  and  her  citizens,  of  whom  92.5  per  cent,  are  Boumans,  out- 
rank the  other  peoples  of  that  district  in  general  culture  and  intelligence. 
Her  foreign  policy — ^uniformly  moderate,  peaceful  and  consistent — ^has 
been  a  constant  factor  in  her  success.  Although  hindered  at  times  by 
Bussian  intrigue,  her  statesmen  have  always  maintained  a  dignified,  con- 
servative attitude.  They  have  courted  successfully  the  friendship  of  their 
neighbors  and  deserve  the  confidence  of  all  the  European  states. 

Early  in  the  nineteenth  century  Servia  began  fighting  valiantly  under 
Kara  George  and  Milosch  for  her  freedom;  but  it  was  not  until  1856  that 
her  people  actually  acquired  liberty  of  worship,  of  trade  and  of  self-govern- 
ment. Complete  independence  was  accorded  her  in  1878;  and  in  1881 
Servia  became  a  constitutional  kingdom  under  Milan  I.   The  unscrupu- 



Ions  ambition  and  inherent  personal  weakness  of  her  rulers,  notably 
Milan  I,  who  set  np  an  absolute  monarchy  in  1883,  and  Alexander  II,  who 
with  his  intriguing  consort — ^Draga — ^was  assassinated  in  1903,  seriously 
retarded  the  development  of  the  coimtry.  The  intrigues  of  ambitious 
neighbors  like  Austria  have  increased  the  diflBculties  and  the  general  con- 

JNTevertheless,  a  constant  improvement  in  conditions  has  been  notice- 
able; and,  since  the  accession  of  the  more  conservative  Peter  I,  Elara- 
georgevich,  a  consistent  and  enlightened  policy  is  rapidly  bringing  Servia 
to  the  forefront.  This  is  due  more  to  the  intelligent  management  of  the 
present  prime  minister,  Nicholas  Pachitch,  and  his  colleagues,  than  to  the 
royal  family. 

Territorially  Servia  possesses  about  the  combined  area  of  Vermont 
and  New  Hampshire.  It  has  a  population  of  2,493,000,  of  whom 
2,298,000  are  Serbs,  and  96  per  cent,  of  whom  are  members  of  the  Greek 
orthodox  church.  Since  1904  she  has  been  out  of  debt  and  presents  a 
yearly  budget  of  $18,100,000.  Her  army  numbers  35,600  men,  but  it 
can  easily  be  raised  to  160,000  in  case  of  war.  There  are  in  active  opera- 
tion 394  miles  of  railway,  2,040  miles  of  telegraph,  and  860  miles  of  tele- 
phone wires. 

Servians  programme  is  one  of  peace  and  internal  development.  Her 
interests  and  sympathies,  however,  bind  her  closely  to  the  Greek  Chris- 
tians and  Serbs  of  the  Balkans.  Her  foreign  policy  centres  about  the  pro- 
tection and  welfare  of  the  great  Serb  peoples  of  Southeastern  Europe, 
of  whom  there  are  some  10,000,000  all  told.  Out  of  these  Servia  hopes 
to  create  a  "Greater  Servia*'  some  day;  but  it  will  require  the  most 
expert  management  on  account  of  the  local  jealousies  of  the  various 
branches  of  ttie  Serb  family  and  the  opposition  of  Austria.  The  latter 
has  been  actively  engaged  for  years  in  fighting  this  Serb  propaganda,  and 
in  crushing  by  economic  and  political  means  not  only  every  move  of  her 
own  Slavs  toward  national  autonomy,  but  also  each  advance  of  Servia  in 
the  direction  of  internal  development  or  national  expansion.  This  is 
but  the  continuation  of  the  policy  of  Count  Andrassy,  who  said  to  Lord 
Salisbury  upon  the  introduction  of  Austrian  military  administration 
into  Bosnia  and  Herzegovina  in  1878 — ^''J'ai  mis  le  pied  sur  la  tSte  du 

Little  Montenegro — ^thc  size  of  Porto  Rico  or  slightly  greater  than 
Yellowstone  National  Park — has  enjoyed  independence,  too,  since  1878, 
although  it  was^ominally  a  free  state  for  many  years  prior  to  that  date. 
Under  its  able  prince,  Nicholas,  it  has  been  as  successfully  administered 
as  any  of  its  neighbors.    To-day  it  is  a  progressive  and  prosperous  com- 


mnnity;  and  its  ruler  enjoys  the  respect  of  all  European  rulers  and 

The  terrible  massacres  of  1876  in  Bulgaria  and  the  Busso-Turkish 
war  of  1877  led  to  the  establishment  of  a  fourth  independent  community 
in  the  Balkans.  Its  area  was  materially  limited  at  first  owing  to  the 
mistaken  policy  of  England,  who  thought  the  salvation  of  these  Danube 
peoples  lay  in  a  reformed  Turkey  rather  than  in  a  division  of  the  region 
among  the  Powers.  Great  Britain  saved  the  Ottoman  Empire  and  ad* 
vanced  her  own  interests  by  this  action,  but  left  European  Turkey  and 
the  Armenians  practically  at  the  mercy  of  the  Sultan. 

Prince  Alexander  of  Battenberg  was  the  first  ruler  of  Bulgaria.  He 
was  friendly  to  Bussia  and  supported  by  her  officials  in  the  early  part  of 
his  reign;  but  in  1883  he  gave  his  people  a  constitutional  government 
and  went  over  to  the  national  party  led  by  Stephen  Stambulov.  All 
Bussian  officials  were  replaced  by  native  leaders  and  a  genuine  Bulgarian 
revival  took  place.  In  1855,  Southern  Bulgaria,  known  as  Eastern  Bou- 
melia,  was  quietly  annexed  by  popular  vote.  Servia  alone  actively  opposed 
the  movement,  but  was  badly  defeated  at  Slivnitza.  Oreat  Britain  came 
to  the  aid  of  Bulgaria,  and  by  skilful  diplomacy  kept  the  powers  inactive 
and  secured  the  acquiescence  of  the  Porte.  This  marked  a  new  epoch  in 
the  attitude  of  England  toward  the  Near-Eastern  question.  Her  change 
of  front  is  best  described  in  the  message  of  Sir  B.  Morier,  English  ambas- 
sador at  St.  Petersburg,  to  Sir  W.  White  at  Constantinople — ^1f  you  can 
help  to  build  up  these  peoples  into  a  bulwark  of  independent  states  and 
thus  screen  the  'sick  man*  from  the  fury  of  the  northern  blast,  for  Qod's 
sake  do  it.*' 

Prince  Alexander  was  kidnapped,  however,  at  the  instigation  of  Bua- 
sian  officials.  Popular  feeling  was  so  pronounced  against  this  action,  that 
he  was  speedily  returned  to  his  palace.  The  Bussian  disfavor  continuing 
so  great,  he  felt  compelled  to  abdicate  in  1886;  and  the  present  ruler, 
Ferdinand  of  Saxe-Coburg,  was  chosen  in  his  stead. 

Ferdinand,  though  self-seeking  and  fond  of  pomp  and  display,  is  a 
statesman  of  considerable  ability.  Under  this  rule  the  state  has  progressed 
steadily  and  rapidly.  It  possesses  an  area  of  38,080  square  miles,  a  little 
greater  than  Indiana  or  Portugal,  and  a  population  of  over  4,000,000.  Of 
these  five-sevenths  are  Bulgarians — ^a  composite  of  Tartar  and  Slavic  blood, 
but  an  intelligent  and  industrious  people.  So  thrifty  have  they  become 
and  so  extensively  have  the  farms  and  landed  estates  passed  into  the  hands 
of  the  tillers  of  the  soil,  that  Bulgaria  has  earned  the  title  of  the  'Teas- 
ant  State." 

In  the  t^  years  from  1895  to  1905  the  exports  of  Bulgaria  rose  from 


$15,537,200  to  $29,592,000  and  imports  from  $13,804,000  to  $24,450,000 
— ^nearly  double  in  both  instances.  There  are  972  miles  of  railway,  355 
miles  of  telegraph,  and  867  miles  of  telephone  wires  now  in  active  service. 
And  Bulgaria  possesses  the  largest  and  most  efficient  army  in  the  Balkan 
provinces.  Its  regular  enrolment  is  about  64,000;  but  this  can  be  readily 
raised  to  a  war  footiog  of  375,000  men.  Her  annual  war-budget  is 
$5,000,000  and  the  entire  national  budget  reaches  a  total  of  $45,400,000. 

Bulgaria's  foreign  policy  is  conservative  and  peaceful.  She  desires 
friendship  with  her  neighbors  and  opportunities  for  internal  development 
and  commercial  expansion.  She  cannot  ignore  the  demands  of  her  com- 
patriots in  Macedonia;  and  she  has  large  interests  in  that  district.  But 
she  can  safely  be  relied  upon  to  act  with  caution  and  conciliation,  and  not 
to  jeopardize  her  position  by  forcing  an  appeal  to  arms. 

Thus  four  free  and  independent  states  have  been  successfully  created 
out  of  European  Turkey  in  the  latter  half  of  the  nineteenth  century  and 
the  territorial  possessions  of  the  Sultan  in  the  Balkans  reduced  by  nearly 
two-thirds.  This  is  primarily  the  result  of  the  misrule  of  the  Sublime 
Porte — of  the  corruption  under  Abdul  Hamid  in  particular — ^and  of  the 
interference  of  the  European  powers.  Yet  it  must  be  acknowledged  that 
the  real  success  of  the  new  states  has  been  due  to  causes  lying  almost  en- 
tirely outside  the  sphere  of  activity  of  the  European  statesmen.  Chief 
among  these  was  the  fact  that  there  existed  within  each  of  these  Balkan 
communities  one  homogeneous  group  of  people  bound  together  by  ties  of 
blood,  language  and  custom,  who  constituted  90  per  cent,  or  over  of  the 
entire  population,  and  who  could  furnish  a  nucleus  of  resource  and  power 
sufficient  to  ensure  the  success  of  a  national  organization.  Such  as  the 
Serbs  of  Servia,  the  Eoumans  of  Eoumania,  and  the  Bulgars  of  Bulgaria. 
To  this,  accompanied  by  the  rapid  growth  of  the  spirit  of  nationaliiy 
among  these  peoples,  more  than  to  anything  else,  is  the  salvation  of  the 
Danube  principalities  to  be  attributed. 

A  second  and  hardly  less  important  factor  was  the  rise  of  gifted  na- 
tive leaders,  like  Prince  Nicholas  of  Montenegro,  Pachitch  of  Servia,  and 
Stambulov  of  Bulgaria,  whose  patriotism  and  devotion  equals  anything 
Europe  has  ever  seen,  and  who  possessed  constructive  political  ability  of 
a  high  order.  The  introduction  of  religious  toleration  removed  one  of  the 
most  serious  obstacles  to  reform — ^namely,  the  strife  between  the  theolog- 
ical sects  of  the  Near-East,  whose  name  is  'legion."  National  churches 
were  organized  under  their  own  heads,  like  the  Bulgarian  Exarch  at  Con- 
stantinople and  the  Metropolitan  of  Servia  at  Belgrade,  and  their  own 
governing  bodies.  And  a  distinct  separation  of  church  and  state  fol- 
lowed.   In  this  way  a  free  hand  was  secured  for  the  new  governments. 


The  transference  of  the  lands  of  the  excluded  Turks  to  the  peasant 
farmers  removed  the  chief  difficulty  in  agrarian  reform.  And  the  aboli- 
tion of  the  old  Turkish  methods  of  taxation  and  collection  of  revenues 
opened  the  way  for  an  enlightened  financial  regime  and  a  progressive  eco- 
nomic development  that  have  placed  each  state  upon  a  sound  basis. 

The  term  '^Macedonia''  does  not  appear  on  modern  maps,  but  is  com- 
monly used  as  a  general  name  for  the  three  Turkish  vilayets  of  Salonika, 
Monastir  and  Kossovo,  lying  between  the  districts  of  Adrianople  and 
Albania.  For  the  purposes  of  this  article,  we  will  apply  it  to  the  whole 
region  in  Europe  stiU  retained  by  the  Sultan.  Its  total  area,  leaving  out 
Bosnia  and  Herzegovina,  is  68,190  square  miles,  or  a  little  less  than  the 
state  of  Missouri.  It  is  a  district  of  considerable  natural  wealth  and  of 
unrivalled  commercial  possibilities,  with  two  ports  of  the  first  rank — 
Constantinople  and  Salonika.  It  possesses  one  of  the  most  cosmopolitan 
populations  in  the  world.  Of  the  6,000,000  inhabitants,  70  per  cent  are 
Turks,  Greeks  and  Albanians,  and  the  remaining  30  per  cent,  includes 
Serbs,  Soumanians,  Bulgarians,  Italians,  Armenians,  Magyars,  Gypsies, 
Jews  and  Circassians.  No  one  nationality  constitutes  more  than  30  per 
cent  of  the  whole;  and  this  lack  of  a  determining  element  in  the  popula- 
tion— one  sufficiently  powerful  to  assume  the  leadership  and  ensure  an 
independent  organization  for  the  district — ^is  one  of  the  main  causes  for 
the  failure  thus  far  to  solve  the  ^Ttfacedonian  question.*' 

Another  serious  difficulty  lies  in  the  racial  antipathies  and  jealousies 
of  the  resident  nationalities — specially  those  who  are  related  to  the  citi- 
zens of  the  neighboring  free  states.  The  moment  one  attempts  to  secure 
the  ascendancy,  the  others  begin  to  fight  tooth  and  nail  against  it.  When 
Bulgaria  permitted  its  people  to  aid  the  Macedonian  revolutionists  in 
1903-4,  Servian  and  Greek  bands  penetrated  the  country  and  as- 
sisted the  Turks  in  the  devastation  of  the  district  and  the  suppression  of 
the  revolt. 

A  third  element  in  the  problem  is  the  religious  situation  and  the 
unique  position  of  the  great  Metropolitan  leaders.  There  are  Greek, 
Bulgarian,  Latin  and  Armenian  Christians,  Mohammedans,  Jews,  and 
other  denominations,  each  under  its  particular  religious  head.  The 
Greeks  enjoy  the  protection  of  his  holiness,  Joachim  III,  Patriarch  of 
Constantinople,  and  the  Latins  that  of  Pope  Pius  X  at  Home.  The  Bul- 
garian Christians  have  their  own  Exarch  at  Constantinople,  who  repre- 
sents their  interests  with  the  Sultan.  The  Armenians  are  divided  into 
two  groups,  one  Roman  Catholic  and  one  Gregorian,  with  its  own  patri- 
arch at  Constantinople.  And  the  Jews  have  their  chief  Rabbi,  called 
''Chacham-Baschi,"  living  also  in  the  Turkish  capitol.    All  of  these  prel- 


]^08  ^™^  FOKUM 

ates  have  immense  influence  and  considerable  strength.  Each  mnst  pro- 
tect his  own  people;  and  none  are  willing  to  favor  any  movement  which 
would  materially  reduce  their  power  or  affect  their  position — such,  for  ex- 
ample, as  the  Bulgarian  Exarch  might  experience  if  the  Bulgar  Christians 
of  Macedonia  were  removed  from  his  immediate  jurisdiction.  Then  no 
group  of  one  religious  persuasion  wishes  to  see  one  of  another  belief 
placed  over  them.  The  experience  of  the  Christians  under  Mohammedan 
rule  has  made  them  all  particularly  sensitive  on  this  point. 

Yet  it  would  be  quite  possible  to  surmount  successfully  these  difBcul- 
ties,  if  the  fourth  obstacle  to  the  complete  pacification  and  reorganiza- 
tion of  Macedonia  were  once  removed.  There  are  a  number  of  states — 
large  and  small — ^vitally  interested  in  this  question,  without  whose  co- 
operation and  consent  no  solution  is  possible.  Eveiy  effort  to  secure 
unity  upon  a  sane  plan  and  to  promote  an  intelligent  and  effective  execu- 
tion of  such  a  scheme  has,  to  date,  resulted  in  signal  failure.  Individual 
interests  have  uniformly  triumphed  over  general  advantages  and  the  real 
issues  at  stake.  The  greater  powers  have  steadily  refused  to  permit  the 
smaller,  like  Bulgaria  and  Boumania,  to  participate  actively  in  the  gen- 
eral discussions  concerning  a  settlement  of  the  problem.  And  well-in- 
tentioned propositions,  like  the  "Muerzsteg  programme'*  of  1903,  have 
received  only  a  tardy  recognition  and  a  support  utterly  inadequate  to  in- 
sure a  genuine  trial. 

Bussia,  the  recognized  leader  of  the  Slavs  and  the  self-appointed  pro- 
tector of  the  Greek  Christians,  has  constantly  permitted  her  own  inter- 
ests to  dictate  her  Balkan  policy.  Defeated  in  her  plan  of  reaching 
around  the  Black  Sea  to  Constantinople  by  the  session  of  the  Drobuja  to 
Boumania  in  1878  and  the  creation  of  greater  Bulgaria  in  1885,  she  still 
hopes  for  some  solution  that  will  leave  her  with  a  predominance  of  power 
aroimd  the  Bosphorus.  She  is  unwilling  either  to  let  any  other  strong 
power  take  over  the  administration  of  European  Turkey  or  to  see  power- 
ful states  created  out  of  that  district.  Nor  is  she  specially  pleased  to  see 
a  revived  Turkish  rule.  The  weaker  the  "sick  man*'  becomes  and  the 
more  quarrelsome  and  petty  the  states  of  the  Balkans  remain,  the  nearer 
her  goal  appears  and  the  easier  it  becomes  to  advance  her  own  interests. 
The  recent  active  co-operation  of  Bussia  with  England  in  favor  of  a  con- 
gress of  the  powers  indicates  that  she  is  at  present  in  a  more  conciliatory 
mood.  It  is  quite  probable  that  she  can  be  counted  upon  to  support  the 
movement  for  a  free  and  self-governing  Macedonia. 

England,  sitting  like  a  watch-dog  at  Cyprus,  insists  that  no  settlement 
shall  be  made  detrimental  to  her  Egyptian  and  Asiatic  interests.  Yet  her 
statesmen  have  been  in  the  main  true  friends  of  the  much  abused  rest- 


dents  of  the  Danube  principalities,  if  we  except  their  serious  blunder  of 
1878.  In  recent  years  her  influence  has  been  steadily  and  consistently 
used  for  the  protection  and  assistance  of  the  new  Balkan  states.  She  is 
opposed  to  the  occupation  of  European  Turkey  and  Constantinople  by  any 
Continental  state,  but  would  receive  with  favor  any  other  reasonable 
proposition  for  the  reorganization  and  government  of  Macedonia,  that 
takes  into  full  consideration  the  liberties,  rights  and  welfare  of  the  in- 
habitants of  that  province. 

For  twenty  years  Germany  has  occupied  the  place  in  the  advisory 
councils  of  the  Porte  that  England  filled  so  successfully  during  a  large 
part  of  the  nineteenth  century.  She  has  used  her  advantage  well  and  to- 
day possesses  more  commercial  advantages  and  industrial  rights  in  both 
Asiatic  and  European  Turkey  than  any  other  power.  Germany's  trade 
with  these  regions  is  so  important  and  her  financial  interests  so  extensive 
that  she  is  certain  to  oppose  strenuously  any  change  in  the  Sultan's 
domains  that  shall  seriously  affect  her  position  or  that  of  her  merchants. 

Italy,  also,  is  vitally  interested  in  the  problem.  She  would  gladly 
acquire  once  more  a  portion  of  Dalmatia  and  Albania,  which  belonged  to 
the  Eepublic  of  Venice  for  several  centuries,  and  where  many  Italian 
speaking  people  live  to-day.  In  addition,  her  royal  family  is  closely 
related  to  those  of  Montenegro  and  Servia  and  she  has  large  commercial 
interests  in  the  Balkans. 

Bulgaria  pursues  steadily  a  peace  policy.  Even  during  the  strenuous 
days  of  the  Macedonian  revolt  of  1902-4  she  remained  officially  neutral; 
'and  in  the  present  crisis  her  conciliatory  spirit  gives  evidence  of 
her  peaceful  intentions.  It  is  necessary  to  her  own  security  and  pros- 
perity. Yet  she  has  her  dream  of  a  ''Greater  Bulgaria,"  looks  with 
longing  eyes  on  Macedonia,  and  watches  every  move  there  with  the 
profoundest  interest. 

Greece  is  very  ambitious.  She  desires  not  only  to  regain  that  portion 
of  Thessaly  lost  to  Turkey  by  the  foolish  rising  of  1898,  but  also  puts 
forth  large  claims  to  Macedonia  on  the  ground  of  old  traditions  and  the 
present  numerous  Greek  population  of  that  region.  She  has  permitted 
for  years  the  intrigues  of  her  citizens  in  the  Balkans  for  this  very  end ; 
the  commercial  and  financial  investments  of  her  citizens  in  Macedonia 
are  most  extensive  and  continually  increasing. 

To  Servia,  expansion  into  Macedonia  seems  an  imperative  necessity 
and  an  outlet  on  the  sea  practically  indispensable,  if  it  is  to  escape  the 
dominance  of  Austria  and  to  work  out  successfully  its  own  future  and 
that  of  the  Serbs  of  Southeastern  Europe.  Austria  has  furthered  the 
discord  between  king  and  people,  and  hindered  the  economic  develop- 


ment  by  high  tariflfs  on  Servian  goods  and  exorbitant  charges  on  the 
Salonika  railway,  in  order  to  keep  the  country  poor  and  cause  the  idtimate 
failure  of  the  Government.  So  serious  has  the  situation  become  that 
Servia  is  even  now  considering  the  construction  of  a  railroad  from 
Kragooyevatz  across  the  Kapaonic  mountains  to  Prisrend  and  thence  via 
Skodra  to  San  Giovanni  di  Medua  on  the  Adriatic. 

Austria-Hungary^s  general  policy  is  one  of  territorial  recompense  in 
the  Balkans  for  her  losses  in  Germany  and  Italy  by  the  wars  of  1859  and 
1866.  This  was  the  basis  of  a  secret  understanding  of  the  Emperors  of 
Eussia,  Germany  and  Austria  in  1872;  and  the  recent  incorporation  of 
Bosnia  and  Herzegovina  in  her  domains  is  but  an  incident  in  the  work- 
ing out  of  this  programme.  Austria  would  accordingly  welcome  an  ex- 
tension of  her  possessions  southwards  through  Albania  and  Macedonia 
to  the  important  port  of  Salonika;  and  she  has  already  constructed  a  rail- 
way from  the  main  Budapest — Constantinople  line  at  Nisch  to  that  port 
via  Uskub. 

It  is  claimed  that  the  ambition  of  the  heir  presumptive  to  the  throne, 
Archduke  Francis  Ferdinand,  is  to  make  Austria  the  leading  Slav  power 
of  Europe  and  to  give  all  the  Slav  peoples  of  Southeastern  Europe  a 
chance  to  work  out  their  destinies  under  her  protection.  Such  a  policy 
is  fraught  with  grave  danger.  In  the  first  place  Austria,  while  having 
made  a  fair  start  in  the  direction  of  constitutional  rule,  has  not  yet  solved 
successfully  her  own  governmental  problems.  Is  it  wise  to  take  on  more 
and  greater  burdens,  before  the  fundamental  difiSculties  to  a  satisfactory 
administration  have  been  removed  ?  In  the  second  place,  the  Slavic  ele^ 
ments  in  the  kingdom  have  always  been  a  serious  menace  and  a  constant 
soutce  of  trouble  to  the  Government.  Can  she  afford,  before  she  has 
discovered  a  satisfactory  system  for  the  management  of  these  peoples,  to 
embarrass  herself  greatly  with  more  of  the  same  kind? 

Undoubtedly  any  large  increase  of  the  Slav  element  will  mean  the 
ultimate  loss  of  the  German  portion  of  Austria.  For  those  who  have  thus 
far  enjoyed  a  monopoly  of  power  in  Austrian  affairs  will  not  relinquish 
it  easily  or  gracefully;  and  to  them  union  with  Germany  is  preferable  to 
Slav  domination  or  even  equalily.  Is  the  Hapsburg  family  ready  for 
such  a  sacrifice?  And  are  they  sure  the  compensations  are  real  and  can 
be  made  permanent? 

The  only  practical  course  open  for  Austria,  if  she  insists  upon  ex- 
pansion in  the  southeast,  is  through  the  organization  of  a  federal  state 
that  shall  be  largely  Slav  in  composition  and  be  erected  with  Hungary 
as  a  nucleus.  The  Hungarians  are  natural  politicians,  can  safely  be 
relied  upon  as  leaders,  and  already  possess  immense  commercial  interests 


in  all  the  Balkan  states.  If  Austria-Hungary  had  to-day  a  federal 
organization  with  a  workable  scheme  for  the  incorporation  of  new  terri- 
tory, like  the  United  States,  the  problem  would  be  an  easy  one.  But  she 
is  not  a  federal  state  or  a  united  people.  And,  if  the  greatest  care  is  not 
perpetually  exercised,  the  prophecy  of  Prince  Gortschakov  at  the  Berlin 
congress,  ''The  tomb  of  Austria  is  in  the  Balkans,'^  may  become  a  fatal 

Now  that  there  is  a  promise  of  a  new  European  congress  on  the  Balkan 
situation,  one  inevitably  asks  the  question — ^Is  there  any  real  hope  that 
the  "Macedonian  question"  will  be  definitely  settled  ?  Judging  from  the 
events  of  the  past  five  years,  the  prospects  of  a  satisfactory  and  permanent 
solution  of  this  knotty  problem  are  brighter  than  ever  before.  It  will 
be  remembered  how  the  terrible  atrocities  in  Macedonia  in  1903-4 
aroused  the  statesmen  of  Europe,  and  how  the  now  famous  'Memo- 
randum" of  Bulgaria — ^an  appalling  indictment  of  Turkish  rule  in 
Macedonia — ^wfts  perused  in  every  council-chamber  on  the  Continent. 
After  considerable  delay  and  under  heavy  pressure  from  the  other  powers, 
Austria  and  Eussia  produced  the  "Vienna  programme"  in  February,^ 
1903;  and,  through  the  persistent  efforts  of  England  and  France,  the 
more  workable  plan — ^known  as  the  "Muerzsteg  programme" — ^was  evolved 
in  October  of  the  same  year.  This  latter  included  reforms  in  finance,  in 
civil  government,  in  taxation  and  in  the  gendarmerie,  and  a  European 
commission  of  control.  Yet  it  failed  completely  for  lack  of  serious  sup- 
port by  its  framers,  and  the  opposition  of  the  Sultan  and  Germany.  It 
has  been  demonstrated  that  the  loss  of  life  during  1905-6  was  almost  as 
great  as  in  1902-3. 

Matters  dragged  on  until  the  summer  of  1908,  when  Sir  Edward  Grey 
and  M.  Ivolski  put  forward  an  energetic  plan  for  the  pacification  of 
Macedonia.  This  embraced,  among  other  provisions,  the  restoration  of 
peace  and  security  through  the  medium  of  a  large  military  force  com- 
manded by  Turks  but  assisted  by  European  oflScers,  the  organization  of 
the  district  into  an  independent  province  under  the  control  of  the  Porte, 
and  the  creation  of  a  new  civil  administration  based  upon  principles  em- 
ployed in  all  modem  governments. 

In  Jtdy,  before  this  programme  could  be  put  into  operation,  the  revo- 
lution occurred  in  Turkey  followed  by  the  triumph  of  the  "Young  Turk^^ 
party  and  the  restoration  of  the  constitution.  The  leaders  of  the  new 
movement  promised  reform  and  local  autonomy  in  Macedonia;  and  at 
the  urgent  request  of  their  representatives  at  Monastir,  the  final  adjust- 
ment was  pos^oned  till  after  the  opening  of  the  Turkish  parliament  in 
December.     All  recent  reports  are  a  convincing  proof  that  this  is  no 

112  THE  FORUM 

temporary  upheaval  to  be  followed  by  the  usual  relapse  into  a  corrupt 
and  despotic  rule,  but  a  reform  movement  of  intelligence  and  strength, 
sure  to  attain  a  large  success  and  permanence.  And  the  National  As- 
sembly now  in  session  enjoys  the  confidence  of  the  whole  people,  and  is 
taking  hold  on  the  problems  of  state  with  enthusiasm  and  intelligence. 
The  leaders  are  just  as  concerned  to  promote  security  and  good  govern- 
ment in  the  local  units,  as  they  are  to  preserve  the  integrity  of  the  empire 
and  to  maintain  constitutional  government. 

The  annexation  of  Bosnia  and  Herzegovina  by  Austria,  the  declaration 
of  independence  by  Bulgaria,  and  the  vote*  of  Crete  for  union  with 
Greece,  in  September,  complicated  the  situation.  But  there  is  no  good 
reason  why  these  events  should  seriously  impede  the  solution  of  the 
Macedonian  problem;  and  in  the  proposed  European  congress  on  the 
Near-Eastern  question,  the  powers  should  take  active  steps  to  co-operate 
with  Turkey  and  render  this  movement  a  prompt  success.  A  more  worthy 
work  could  hardly  be  imagined.  There  is  at  present  no  other  practical 
way  to  reorganize  successfully  European  Turkey  except  through  an 
^  autonomous  Macedonia  under  the  suzerainty  of  the  Porte.  It  does  not 
endanger  the  integrity  of  the  Sultan's  empire,  or  affect  materially  any 
individual  interests  of  the  Balkan  states.  Yet,  at  the  same  time,  it  will 
afford  protection  for  life  and  property,  and  give  the  people  full  scope  for 
the  development  of  self-government.  To  facilitate  the  reconstruction, 
local  officials  might  be  imported  from  neutral  states  like  Switzerland  and 
Holland,  and  financial  and  civil  advisers  be  furnished  the  administration 
by  the  powers.    Troops  and  money  could  be  loaned  if  necessary. 

In  the  event  of  the  failure  of  the  reform  movement  in  Turkey,  or  if, 
after  a  careful  and  thorough  experiment,  it  is  found  that  the  inhabitants 
of  Macedonia  are  incapable  of  self-government,  there  will  remain  but  one 
thing  for  the  European  Concert  to  do.  The  district  should  be  purchased 
from  Turkey  at  a  reasonable  figure  and  divided  among  the  neighboring 
states  of  Montenegro,  Servia,  Bulgaria  and  Greece,  on  an  equitable  basis 
in  accord  with  the  number  of  persons  in  Macedonia  racially  related  to 
the  peoples  of  those  states.  The  burden  of  the  Turkish  indemnity  would, 
of  course,  be  assumed  by  the  Balkan  governments. 

In  any  case  the  whole  of  the  Balkans  should  be  permanently  neutral- 
ized. All  the  states  should  be  placed,  like  Switzerland  and  Belgium, 
under  the  protection  of  the  powers,  so  they  can  neither  make  war  nor  be 
attacked.  The  time  has  now  come  for  such  an  action.  None  of  the 
greater  states  will  ever  consent  to  one  of  their  number  taking  possession 
of  the  region.  Economically  neutralization  would  be  one  of  the  greatest 
blessings  to  the  young  and  weak  Balkan  kingdoms.    And  why  should  the 


district  not  form  a  'Tjufifer  state''  between  Austria,  Eussia  and  Turkey, 
as  Switzeriand  does  between  the  nations  of  Western  Europe?  With  the 
integrity  and  independence  of  the  Danube  states  guaranteed,  and  the  co- 
operation of  a  reformed  Turkey  and  the  powers  in  Macedonia  an  accom- 
plished fact,  all  fear  of  war  would  vanish  and  the  old  bugbear  of  the 
"terrible  Turk'*  would  disappear  from  Europe  forever. 

Norman  DwigJit  Harris, 



In  the  leisurely  eighteenth  century,  the  age  of  ample  prose,  when 
every  man  seemed  to  have  for  his  own  use  all  the  time  there  was  and 
when  he  was  ever  ready  to  bestow  a  full  share  of  eternity  upon  the 
elaboration  of  lucubrations  called  forth  by  any  topic  that  chanced  to 
float  within  reach — ^in  those  easy-going  days,  before  the  virtues  of  the 
strenuous  life  had  been  insistently  proclaimed,  the  full  and  proper  title* 
for  the  casual  suggestions  which  are  here  to  be  set  down,  might  shape 
itself  into  something  not  unlike  this:  "On  a  certain  Ineffectiveness  of 
French  Poetry  for  those  Readers  who  have  English  as  their  Mother- 

Probably  few  of  us  would  be  prepared  to  dispute  the  statement  that  a 
very  large  proportion  of  those  whose  native  speech  is  English  and  who 
yet  have  acquired  more  or  less  facility  in  reading  other  languages,  both 
ancient  and  modern,  find  French  poetry  less  satisfying  than  the  poetry 
of  the  Greeks  and  of  the  Latins,  of  the  Germans  and  of  the  Italians. 
Some  of  us  feel  this  so  strongly  that  we  are  even  a  little  surprised  to 
discover  that  the  French  themselves  do  not  feel  it  at  all,  and  that  they 
are  not  prepared  to  admit  any  inferiority  of  their  poets  or  any  inadequacy 
of  their  language  as  a  medium  for  poetry.  It  has  seemed  to  some 
English  critics  almost  a  wilful  freakishness,  a  personal  perversity,  when 
they  beheld  a  French  critic  as  clear-eyed  and  as  open-minded 
as  Taine  contrasting  Alfred  Tennyson  and  Alfred  de  Musset,  and 
then  concluding  with  the  declaration  that  after  all  he  preferred 

Brunetifere  was  unable  to  discover  any  sufficient  reason  for  the  fact 
he  admitted  ungrudgingly,  that  although  French  prose  conquered  all  the 
nations  of  Europe,  French  poetry  had  been  unable  to  win  a  firm  foothold 
outside  of  the  confines  of  its  own  language.    That  the  French  are  the 




modem  masters  of  prose  is  rmdeniable.  Why  are  they  not  also  the  masters 
of  poetry  ?  Why  is  it  that  a  list  of  the  chief  French  authors,  whether  this 
roll-call  contain  a  dozen  names,  or  a  score,  or  a  hundred,  would  be  illumi- 
nated chiefly  by  the  names  of  prose-writers,  whereas  a  corresponding  list 
of  authors  using  the  English  language  would  shine  with  a  very  large 
preponderance  of  the  poets? 

Perhaps  it  is  not  begging  the  question  to  lay  on  the  French  language 
the  blame  for  certain  of  the  deficiencies  that  we  think  we  detect  in 
French  poetry.  Perhaps  it  is  not  unprofitable  to  remind  ourselves  that  a 
language  must  of  necessity  resemble  the  people  who  speak  it  and  who 
have  moulded  it  instinctiyely  to  their  own  necessities  and  to  their  own 
natures.  "There  is  room  for  a  very  interesting  work,  which  should  lay^ 
open  the  connection  between  the  languages  and  the  manners  of  nations^ 
— so  wrote  Gibbon  in  one  of  the  frequent  notes  of  his  monumental  his- 
tory, the  first  volume  of  which  appeared  in  the  year  when  the  English- 
speaking  race  was  split  into  two  nations.  The  'Very  interesting  work" 
which  the  great  historian  suggested  has  not  been  written  in  all  this 
century  and  a  quarter;  but  its  theme  has  attracted  the  attention  of  many 
an  acute  critic;  and  it  would  be  easy  to  collect  a  sheaf  of  suggestions 
likely  to  be  useful  to  the  investigator  who  shall  undertake  the  task.  For 
example,  the  Danish  scholar.  Professor  Jespersen,  thinks  that  English  is 
essentially  a  virile  speech,  having  about  it  little  that  is  feminine  or 
childish.  Lowell  was  unwittingly  commenting  on  the  race  that  speaks 
German  when  he  declared  that  he  found  in  that  language  "sentences  in 
which  one  sets  sail  like  an  admiral  with  sealed  orders,  not  knowing  where 
he  is  going  to  till  he  is  in  mid-ocean." 

In  the  language  of  the  French  we  find  the  qualities  which  character- 
ize the  people — ^the  social  instinct,  the  logic,  the  regard  for  proportion  and 
order,  the  inherited  Latin  tradition — aU  characteristics  which  make  for 
prose  and  for  the  most  pellucid  prose,  although  some  of  them  are  more 
or  less  hostile  to  poetry,  and  especially  to  lyric  poetry.  On  the  other  hand, 
a  certain  lack  of  restraint  discoverable  in  the  writings  of  the  stock  that 
speaks  English,  an  excessive  individualism,  a  superabundant  energy,  that 
transmutes  itself  easily  into  imagination — ^these  are  all  qualities  which 
make  for  poetry,  and  more  particularly  for  lyric  poetry.  It  is  true  also 
that  these  are  qualities  which  make  against  prose  in  its  finest  perfection 
of  artistic  ease  and  of  persuasive  sanity.  It  is  not  by  accident  tiiat 
English  literature  has  had  characteristic  figures  like  Carlyle  with  his 
humorous  contortions  and  like  Euskin  with  his  ill-balanced  vagaries. 
Nor  is  it  by  chance  only  that  French  literature  in  the  same  century  had 
Sainte-Beuve  and  Benan  and  Taine,  deialing  soberly  with  themes  closely 


akin  to  those  which  the  two  British  writers  chose  to  handle  vehemently 
and  violently. 

It  was  a  Frenchman,  Eivarol,  who  declared  that  what  was  not  clear 
was  not  French.  It  was  another  Frenchman,  Benan,  who  asserted  that 
his  fellow-countrymen  cared  to  express  only  what  was  clear,  although 
"the  most  important  truths,  those  relating  to  the  transformation  of  life, 
are  not  clear;  one  perceives  them  only  in  a  kind  of  half-light.**  Clarity 
is  an  essential  of  the  best  prose;  but  the  subtlest  and  most  suggestive 
poetry  can  get  along  without  it.  In  some  of  Shelley's  loveliest  lyrics,  for 
instance,  the  logic  is  a  little  doubtful,  and  the  exact  meaning  is  not 
beyond  dispute.  The  very  precision  of  the  French  vocabulary,  with  its 
sharp-edged  words,  bare  of  all  penumbra,  makes  it  difficult  for  those  who 
have  to  use  it  as  a  medium  for  poetry  to  express  the  vaguer  phases  of 
emotion  in  the  formative  moods  of  feeling.  Here  seems  to  be  a  superiority 
of  the  Teutonic  tongues  in  that  they  can  render  more  readily  the  saturated 
solution  of  emotion  before  it  is  precipitated,  whereas  the  various  inheritors 
of  the  Latin  language  can  reproduce  rather  the  sharp  transparency  of 
the  crystal. 

A  friend  of  mine,  when  he  was  a  student  at  Berlin,  was  advised  by  one 
of  his  instructors  to  get  the  French  translation  of  that  professor's  great 
work,  as  this  was  easier  to  understand  than  the  German  original.  And 
this  same  friend  came  to  the  reading  of  the  psychologic  studies  of  a  dis- 
tinguished French  critic  after  he  had  been  steeping  himself  in  German 
philosophy,  and  he  discovered  that  the  French  author  was  struggling 
valiantly  to  express  in  his  own  tongue  the  rather  nebulous  ideas  absorbed 
from  this  same  German  philosophy.  In  the  transference  of  the  German 
thought  into  the  French  language  there  was  a  gain  in  clarity,  no  doubt, 
but  there  was  also  the  sacrifice  of  a  hazy  but  far-reaching  suggestiveness, 
which  might  be  an  agent  of  imaginative  stimulation.  And  what  is  poetry, 
after  all,  but  another  expression  of  philosophy?  As  Whitney  once 
phrased  it,  'TVords  are  not  the  exact  models  of  ideas;  they  are  merely 
signs  for  ideas,  at  whose  significance  we  arrive  as  well  as  we  can."  If  the 
words  of  a  language  are  sharply  precise,  they  can  best  signify  those  ideas 
which  have  a  precision  equally  acute.  It  was  Eivarol,  again,  who  declared 
that  in  French  '*the  imagination  of  the  poet  is  arrested  also  by  the  circum- 
spect genius  of  the  language.'' 

Not  only  is  the  French  language  sharper  than  any  one  of  the  several 
Teutonic  tongues— and  thereby  better  fitted  for  exposition,  for  the  con- 
veying of  information,  for  criticism,  for  logic,  for  science,  and  in  general 
for  all  the  purposes  of  prose — ^but  it  is  also  less  musical,  less  accented, 
more  monotonoiw,    It  is  ^  nasal  speech,  an4  it?  ton^  ftre  Jes§  b^^i^tiful 



than  those  of  its  Latin  sisters,  Italian  and  Spanish,  studded  with  open 
vowels — ^less  beautiful  really  than  those  of  English  when  our  Northern 
language  is  handled  by  a  master  of  sounds,  who  knows  how  to  evoke  the 
melody  of  which  it  is  capable.  No  French  poet  has  been  able  to  make 
his  words  sing  themselves  into  the  memory  more  certainly  than  Victor 
Hugo;  and  yet  even  that  virtuoso  of  the  lyric  has  left  us  few  stanzas 
sustained  by  the  haunting  music  which  lifts  up  many  of  the  lines  of 
Tennyson.  Even  Poe,  whose  equipment  is  meagre  enough,  even  if  his 
accomplishment  is  surprising,  can  on  occasion  achieve  a  mastery  of  mere 
sound,  denied  to  Hugo,  despite  all  his  marvellous  native  gift  and  all  his 
consummate  craftsmanship  in  compelling  words  to  do  his  bidding. 

French  verse  seems  to  be  curiously  dependent  on  its  rhymes  for  its 
structure.  In  his  little  treatise  on  the  art  of  versification,  Th^dore  de 
Banville  was  frank  in  avowing  this  and  in  setting  forth  plainly  the  im- 
portance of  the  principle.  It  is  significant  that  blank  verse  has  never 
been  able  to  establish  itself  in  French  poetry;  and  French  prose  is  there- 
fore free  from  those  passages  of  unconscious  blank  verse  such  as  Dickens 
fell  into  when  he  wanted  to  emphasize  the  pathos  of  his  sentimental 
deathbeds.  Without  its  pairs  of  words  the  poetry  of  the  French  is  barely 
distinguishable  from  prose.  It  is  hardly  too  much  to  say  that  French 
verse  robbed  of  its  rhyme  ceases  to  exist.  And  as  a  result  the  poets  of 
France  have  centred  their  attention  on  rhyme,  and  have  forced  from  it 
possibilities  unattained  as  yet  by  the  poets  who  use  the  accented  Teutonic 
tongues.  No  dexterous  manipulator  of  English  has  yet  extracted  from 
his  rhymes  alone  the  sustaining  effects  which  Heredia  wrought  into  his 
lustrous  sonnets  by  the  artful  choice  and  contrast  of  his  terminal  sylla- 
bles. Nor  has  any  lyrist  of  our  language  ever  juggled  with  aflSuent  rhymes 
as  Victor  Hugo  was  wont  to  do,  dazzling  the  eyes  of  the  reader  with  the 
incomparable  brilliance  of  his  selection. 

The  French  poets  are  forced  to  rely  largely  on  their  rhymes  because 
their  language  is  in  a  way  monotonous — ^if  not  absolutely  unaccentual. 
There  is  no  denying  that  it  is  far  less  accentual  than  German  or  English. 
Nisard  declared  that  French  was  unique  among  all  languages  in  that  it 
was  wholly  without  accent;  and  he  even  maintained  that  this  deficiency 
helped  to  fit  the  language  for  universal  use,  since  accent  was  what  was 
most  individual  in  human  speech.  And  here  we  have  another  reason  why 
French  poetry  is  less  satisfying  to  our  ears,  attuned  to  the  bolder  rh3rthmic 
swing  of  the  Teutonic  metres.  Here,  indeed,  is  an  obvious  disability  of 
the  French,  which  puts  their  poets  at  an  indisputable  disadvantage. 
Emotion  is  rhythmic,  just  as  all  nature  is  also.  The  instinctive  cries  of 
primitive  man  are  undulatory.     The  spontaneous  expression  of  feeling 


rises  and  falls,  like  the  waves  of  the  sea.  There  is  a  cadence  in  the  croon- 
ing of  the  mother  over  her  babe  asleep  in  the  cradle,  as  there  is  also  in 
the  bitter  wailing  of  the  tribe  over  its  dead.  In  so  far  as  the  French 
language  has  a  barrenness  of  accent,  and  a  fundamental  monotony  of 
syllabic  utterance,  and  in  so  far  as  it  tends  to  require  its  lyrists  to 
abstain  from  stress,  from  undulation,  it  is  deprived  of  an  emotional 
resource,  of  a  method  of  appeal  to  the  soul,  through  the  ear,  which  has 
been  potent  in  poetry  since  the  f  ar-ofif  ages  when  primitive  man  had  not 
yet  discovered  the  utility  of  prose. 

Of  course,  it  is  unfair  to  accept  Nisard's  assertion  that  the  French 
language  is  absolutely  without  accent,  without  any  rhythm  at  all.  But 
it  is  fair  enough  to  suggest  that  the  rhythmic  variety  of  French  is  far 
more  subtle,  far  less  obvious,  than  that  existing  in  any  of  the  Teutonic 
tongues.  In  giving  up  a  more  plainly  marked  accent,  a  rhythm  per- 
ceptible to  the  ear  accustomed  to  the  bolder  alternations  of  stress  more 
easily  measured  in  our  own  speech,  the  French  have  shorn  their  language 
of  an  emotional  instrument,  of  a  physical  advantage,  preserved  for  the 
use  of  the  poets  of  almost  every  modem  tongue.  Sometimes  the  French 
insist  on  the  equality  of  every  syllable  in  a  line,  and  sometimes  they 
profess  to  be  able  to  detect  a  play  of  accent  imperceptible  to  the  foreign 
ear  habituated  to  the  marching  rhythm  of  other  languages.  For  the 
most  part,  their  own  writers  have  failed  to  see  how  large  this  loss  is,  in 
thus  surrendering  what  was  the  birthright  of  primitive  man.  Unfamiliar 
with  this  emotional  instrument,  they  do  not  perceive  that  its  absence 
enfeebles  the  appeal  which  their  poetry  makes  on  foreign  ears.  Naturally 
enough,  they  themselves  do  not  miss  that  which  they  have  never  possessed. 

It  was  the  wise  Mommsen  who  called  Ciceronianism  a  problem  which 
is  part  of  "that  greater  mystery  of  human  nature — ^language  and  the  effect 
of  language  on  the  mind.'^  And  it  was  the  shrewd  Bagehot  who  asserted 
that  there  was  '^a  certain  intimate  essence  of  national  meaning  which  is 
untransmutable  as  good  poetry.  Dry  thoughts  are  cosmopolitan,  but  the 
delicate  associations  of  language  which  express  character,  the  traits  of 
speech  which  mark  the  man,  differ  in  every  tongue,  so  that  there  are  not 
even  cumbrous  circumlocutions  that  are  equivalent  in  another."  This  is 
one  of  the  reasons  why  the  best  translation  can  never  be  more  than  an 
inferior  substitute  for  the  original.  No  one  can  really  feel  the  inner 
meaning  of  a  poem  until  he  has  conquered  an  insight  into  the  language 
in  which  it  sang  itself  into  being.  And  even  when  the  reader  has  gained 
this  essential  mastery  of  the  foreign  speech,  it  remains  foreign  after  all ; 
it  can  never  be  more  than  an  academic  accomplishment ;  it  can  never  make 
the  intimate  appeal  of  the  songs  originally  phrased  in  the  mother-tongue. 

118  THE  FORUM 

As  Sidney  Lanier  declared  poetically,  every  word  of  a  poem  "is  like  the 
bright  head  of  a  comet  drawing  behind  it  a  less  luminous  train  of  vague 
associations,  which  are  associations  only  to  those  who  have  used  such 
words  from  infancy/^ 

Th'-*  remark  of  Lanier^s  may  help  us  to  grasp  at  a  remote  reason  why 
Hugo  and  Musset  are  less  satisfying  than  Goethe  or  Heine  to  us  who  have 
English  for  our  native  speech — a  reason  to  be  seized  only  when  we  recall 
the  lasting  effects  of  the  impress  of  French  upon  English  when  oui 
language  was  yet  in  its  plastic  youth.  The  Norman  conquest  brought 
about  a  mingling  in  our  tongue  of  French  words  with  the  ruder  vocables 
of  Anglo-Saxon  origin;  and  English  has  been  free  ever  since  to  enrich 
itself  from  a  twofold  store,  taking  from  the  Romance  stock  with  the 
right  hand  and  from  the  Teutonic  with  the  left,  with  the  result  that  its 
vocabulary  is  probably  ampler  now  than  that  of  any  other  language. 

It  is  true,  of  course,  that  there  is  a  large  infusion  of  Romance  words 
in  modem  German  speech,  as  there  is  also  a  large  infusion  of  Teutonic 
words  in  modern  French  speech;  but  neither  French  nor  German  has  a 
double  vocabulary  for  ordinary  use  as  English  has.  Now,  if  we  classify 
the  English  words  in  ordinary  use  into  two  groups,  the  first  embracing 
what  may  be  called  the  primary  words,  those  which  we  use  instinctively 
in  the  hour  of  need  and  at  all  other  moments  of  tense  emotion,  and  the 
second  embracing  the  secondary  words,  those  with  which  we  are  equally 
familiar,  no  doubt,  but  which  do  not  rise  as  readily  to  our  lips — if  we 
undertake  this  classification  we  know  in  advance  that  the  larger  propor- 
tion of  the  primary  words  will  belong  to  the  Teutonic  stock,  and  that  a 
larger  proportion  of  the  secondary  words  will  belong  to  the  Romance 
stock.  As  Herbert  Spencer  recorded,  "a  child's  vocabulary  is  almost 
wholly  Saxon."  And  the  same  acute  observer  also  declared  that  "the 
earliest  learnt  and  of  tenest  used  words  will,  other  things  being  equal,  call 
up  images  with  less  loss  of  time  and  energy  than  their  later  learnt 

To  call  up  images  is  a  chief  purpose  of  the  poet;  and  he  will  succeed 
in  English  partly  in  proportion  to  his  choice  of  the  primary  words, 
chiefly  of  Teutonic  descent,  and  to  liis  skill  in  extracting  from  them,  all 
their  essential  suggestion.  When  he  prefers  the  secondary  words,  of 
Romance  origin  mostly,  he  is  likely  to  seem  less  direct,  less  vigorous,  and 
even  less  sincere.  But  if  these  verbal  characteristics  so  impress  us  in  the 
Ijrrics  of  our  own  language,  in  all  probability  they  will  so  impress  us 
also  in  the  verses  of  foreign  poets.  So  it  is  that  we  who  have  English  for 
our  mother-tongue  find  in  German  poetry  a  free  use  of  Teutonic  terms 
closely  akin  to  our  own  primary  words,  and  we  cannot  help  finding  in 


French  poetry  that  Eomance  vocabulary  which  recalls  to  us  our  own 
secondary  words,  to  us  always  more  or  less  inferior  in  emotional  sug- 
gestion. Both  in  French  and  in  German  the  poets  are  using  words  which 
are  primary  to  them,  but  in  consequence  of  our  double  vocabulary  only 
the  words  of  the  German  poets  seem  primary  to  us.  The  words  of  the 
French  poets  must  necessarily  appear  to  us  as  secondary,  that  is  to  say,  as 
less  direct,  less  vigorous,  and  even  as  less  sincere  than  the  words  of  the 
German  poets. 

To  say  this,  of  course,  is  not  to  pass  any  ultimate  condemnation  on 
French  poetry,  but  only  to  explain  one  reason  why  it  is  less  eflfective  to 
those  who  speak  English  than  it  is  to  those  who  speak  Italian  or  Spanish. 
To  us  the  homely  talk  of  the  hearth,  the  stuff  out  of  which  the  simplest 
poetry  is  made,  is  largely  Teutonic ;  but  when  an  inheritor  of  the  Latins 
handles  this  same  stuff  he  cannot  command  other  than  Bomance  vocables. 
The  French  lyric  which  appears  to  us  indirect  and  ineffective,  simply  be- 
cause the  poet  must  perforce  employ  words  which  seem  to  us  secondary, 
will  be  satisfying  to  a  Frenchman,  to, whom  these  same  words  are  primary, 
and  to  him  it  may  appeal  as  a  masterpiece  of  vigorous  sincerity. 

Many  of  those  who  are  best  fitted  to  appreciate  the  finer  qualities  of 
French  literature  have  always  felt  that  there  was  a  lack  of  fairness  in 
Matthew  Amold^s  trick  of  comparing  poetical  fragments  in  French  and 
in  English  to  the  obvious  disadvantage  of  the  foreign  l3rrist.  The  victory 
was  a  little  too  easy  to  be  quite  worth  while ;  and  it  failed  to  carry  con- 
viction even  to  those  who  were  willing  enough  to  admit  that  French  poetry 
did  not  satisfy  them.  Yet  this  French  poetry  does  satisfy  the  capable  and 
accomplished  critics  of  France,  a  land  where  criticism  is  cultivated  as  a 
fine  art.  May  not  this  divergence  of  opinion  be  due  to  two  causes  here 
indicated?  First,  to  the  fact  that  French  verse  is  far  less  rhythmic  than 
the  verse  of  any  of  the  Teutonic  tongues  and  that,  therefore,  it  is  emotion- 
ally feebler  to  us  who  are  accustomed  to  the  bolder  beats  of  our  own 
stanzas ;  and,  second,  to  the  fact  that  the  French  words  most  needed  by 
the  poet  seem  to  us  who  speak  English  secondary,  less  direct,  and  there- 
fore less  effective,  although  these  very  words  are  primary  to  the  French 
poet  himself  and  to.  his  French  readers.  This  second  disadvantage  applies 
more  particularly  to  the  poetry  of  the  simpler  emotions.  But  the  poetry 
of  a  more  sweeping  imagination  is  also  more  or  less  unsatisfactory  to  us 
because  the  marvellous  clarity  of  the  French  language  deprives  the  poet 
who  works  in  it  of  a  power  of  indefinite  suggestion  possible  to  the  poets 
who  have  English  or  German  or  Greek  for  their  mother-tongue. 

It  remains  only  to  be  noted  that  these  two  disadvantages  of  French 
poetry  in  the  ears  of  those  who  have  English  as  their  mother-tongue  are 



neither  of  them  discoverable  in  Italian  poetry  or  in  Spanish — or  at  least 
not  discoverable  to  the  same  extent.  In  the  first  place,  both  these  other 
Eomance  languages  are  rhymthic  with  accentual  systems  easily  perceptible 
to  the  ears  attuned  to  Teutonic  alternations  of  stress.  And  in  the  second 
place,  the  Romance  words  in  English  are  derived  most  of  them  directly 
from  the  French,  whereas  the  Italian  and  Spanish  forms  of  the  same 
word  are  often  so  different  from  our  secondary  words  that  they  need  an 
effort  of  perception  and  so  evoke  the  primary  emotions,  rather  than  the 
secondary,  which  are  called  forth  by  the  corresponding  French  words.  It 
is  true  also  that  clarity  is  not  the  chief  characteristic  of  either  Italian  or  of 
Spanish,  as  it  is  of  French. 

Brander  Matthews. 



A  WRITER  or  an  orator  who  has  once,  if  only  once,  become  the  spokes- 
man of  his  people  at  a  national  crisis  necessarily  becomes  interesting  as 
a  master  of  his  native  speech.  That  feat,  by  the  universal  consent  of  the 
American  people,  and  with  the  assent  of  foreign  critics,  Abraham 
Lincoln  once  performed.  Of  course,  the  speech  at  Gettysburg,  which 
has  long  ago  taken  its  place  among  the  ^^great  little  speeches"  of  the 
English  language,  or  of  any  language,  is  securely  a  classic.  It 
would  be  a  waste  of  space  to  transcribe  it.  Everybody  may  be  supposed 
to  be  reprinting  and  reading  it  in  this  anniversary  month  of  the  cen- 
tennial year.  Nobody  will  be  disputing  that  it  is  a  masterpiece.  In  it, 
Lincoln  really  "rose  to  the  height  of  this  great  argument,'* — ^to  continue 
the  language  of  the  great  rhetorician  whose  tercentenary  preceded  his 
own  centenary  by  two  centuries  and  two  months, — really  asserted  Eternal 
Providence  and  justified  the  ways  of  God  to  men.  Beading  it  over  again 
as  coldly  and  critically  as  any  American  can,  it  seems  very  nearly  as 
impeccable  as  inspiring.  There  is  only  that  one  unlucky  slip  in  the  first 
sentence,  "our  fathers  brought  forth  upon  this  continent  a  new  nation," 
with  its  necessary  and  impossible  implication  that  the  male  is  the  par- 
turient parent,  to  contradict  or  halt  the  else  uninterrupted  course  of  the 
reader^s  grateful  and  admiring  assent. 

The  man  who  did  the  Gettysburg  speech,  one  says,  must  have  done 
other  things  almost  equally  worthy  of  memory  and  celebration.  And  one 
recalls,  more  or  less  vaguely,  other  "eloquent  passages,*'  other  "purple 
patches."     One  may  be  moved,  as  the  present  commentator  has  been 


moved,  to  go  through  all  the  published  writings  and  speeches  of  the 
author  of  the  Gettysburg  address,  in  the  hope  of  finding  other  things 
of  tlie  same  rhetorical  quality.  This  little  study  is  a  record  of  what  such 
a  disinterested'  inquirer  finds. 

The  first  thing  he  finds  is  that  the  eloquent  passages  are,  truly, 
purpurei  pannL  Every  one  of  them,  in  the  Horatian  phrase, 
adsuiiur.  It  is  not  merely  a  more  elaborately  embroidered  piece  of 
the  surrounding  tissue.  It  is,  truly,  "sewed  on."  Let  us  make  a  col- 
lection, by  no  means  necessarily  a  "crazy-quilt,"  of  these  ornamental 
patches.  The  collection  of  the  ^'Messages  of  the  Presidents"  contains  them 
all.  For  neither  the  Lincoln-Douglas  debates,  nor  yet  any  other  utter- 
ances of  Lincoln  before  he  was  President,  are  in  any  danger  of  getting 
into  the  school-readers  as  models  of  expression.  The  parting  speech  at 
Springfield  may  be  admitted  as  a  partial  exception.  There  is  in  fact  a 
great  deal  of  human  nature  in  the  way  in  which  the  leading  lawyer  of 
that  then  frontier  community,  who  had  gone  daily  in  and  out  for  a 
quarter  of  a  century  before  the  neighbors  to  whom  he  was  speaking,  took 
his  leave  of  them  to  venture  upon  strange  scenes  and  a  new  environment, 
like  a  prairie  Columbus  embarking  upon  uncharted  seas.  Of  human 
nature,  and  of  necessary  pathos.  But,  while  one  derives  this  impression 
from  the  parting  speech,  one  recalls  only  one's  impression,  not  the 
ipsissima  verba,  the  very  words  by  which  that  impression  had  been 
conveyed,  as  one  would  recall  them  if  they  had  been  uttered  by  a  master 
of  language,  as  if  the  little  speech  were  in  the  same  class,  for  example, 
with  the  little  speech  of  Burke  at  Bristol,  or  the  little  speech  of  Emerson 
at  Manchester.  From  a  re-reading  of  the  Springfield  speech  one  carries 
away  only  the  same  confused  recollection  of  something  genial  and  human 
which  one  brought  to  it.  As  to  those  Douglas  debates,  what  the  candid 
reader  finds  in  them  is  by  no  means  rhetorical  excellence.  He  can  never 
say  of  their  author  what  Hallam  said  of  Hooker:  "So  little  is  there  of 
vulgarity  in  his  racy  idiom."  Rather  the  contrary.  What  the  present- 
day  reader  does  find  is  arguing,  arguing  which  is  not  only  keen,  but 
candid.  Now  Douglas  was  keen — ^no  debater  of  his  generation  more  so. 
But  he  was  distinctly  uncandid.  When  he  was  confronted  by  an  equal, 
or  rather  by  a  greater,  clearness  of  perception,  which  not  only  vividly 
brought  out  the  shiftiness  and  trickiness  of  his  oratory,  but  shamed 
those  qualities  by  confronting  them  with  a  disposition  evidently  equitable 
and  candid,  it  was  the  adversary  who  triumphed.  It  is  no  wonder  that 
Douglas  lost  his  temper  many  times,  Lincoln  hardly  once.  Lincoln's 
candor  was  in  fact  his  chief  asset  in  debate,  as  it  had  been  his  chief  asset 
in  talking  to  Illinois  juries.    As  whoever  has  much  frequented  courts  of 

122  ^''HE  FORUM 

justice  muaj;  have  noticed,  it  is  one  of  the  most  valuable  assets  a  nisi 
prius  lawyer  can  possess.  How  strange  so  few  jury  lawyers  should 
cultivate  it.  It  was  recognized,  by  the  end  of  1858,  all  over  Illinois,  as 
Lincoln's  chief  political  asset.  For  "'Honest  Old  Abe''  did  not  merely 
imply  that  Lincoln,  in  the  judgment  of  his  fellow^citizens,  would  not 
steal  money.  It  was  a  tribute  to  his  equity  and  fair-mindedness  as  a 
disputant.  "Candid  old  Abe"  was  what  Illinois,  half  a  century  ago, 
really  ''wished  to  say.'* 

But  let  us  examine  the  "purple  patches."  A  President's  message  is 
<x)mmon]y  a  mosaic,  a  thing  of  shreds  and  patches.  Each  head  of  depart- 
ment is  apt  to  be  left  to  dictate  the  statements  of  fact  and  the  recom- 
mendations with  regard  to  his  department,  and  his  own  words  are  apt, 
naturally,  to  be  incorporated.  But  this  practice  is  fatal  to  rhetorical 
unity,  to  "style."  Matthew  Arnold  says,  very  justiy,  of  British  "Speeches 
from  the  Throne" : 

What  is  to  be  remarked  is  this — a  speech  from  the  throne  falls  essentially 
within  the  sphere  of  rhetoric,  it  is  one's  sense-  of  rhetoric  which  has  to  fix  its 
tone  and  style,  so  a«  to  keep  a  certain  note  always  sounding  in  it;  in  an  English 
speech  from  the  throne,  whatever  its  faults,  this  rhetorical  note  is  always  struck 
and  kept  to. 

Now  this  prolongation  of  a  single  rhetorical  "note"  is  evidentiy  out 
of  the  question  when  the  composition  is  a  cento  of  the  contributions  of 
heads  of  departments.  And  this  was  the  case  with  most  of  Lincolh's 
messages,  as  it  is  and  perhaps  must  be  the  case  with  most  Presidential 
messages  under  our  system.  But  it  was  not  the  case  with  Lincoln's  first 
inaugural.  About  the  first  draft  of  that  it  does  not  appear  that  he  had 
taken  counsel  of  flesh  and  blood.  He  had  written  it  out  at  Springfield, 
and  had  brought  it  on  to  Washington,  sending  a  few  copies  to  those 
whose  coimsel  he  felt  bound  to  invoke.  Among  these  was  Seward,  who 
seems  to  have  imagined  that  he  was  the  only  coimsellor.  The  body  of 
the  inaugural  was  a  characteristically  Lincolnian  piece  of  fair  and  candid 
argumentation,  made  almost  astonishing  by  the  circi^mstances.  "Come, 
let  us  reason  together,"  he  says  to  conmiunities  which  had  already  seceded 
or  were  visibly  on  the  edge  of  secession,  and  goes  on  to  argue  away  their 
apprehensions  about  his  power  or  his  disposition  to  interfere  with  slavery 
wherever  it  already  had  a  legal  existence.  Of  course,  his  candor  was  not 
so  naif  as  it  might  seem.  The  argument  was  really  addressed  to  the 
border  or  uncommitted  States,  which  in  fact  were  held,  but  which  would 
assuredly  have  followed  the  Cotton  States  if  the  Government  had  come 
under  the  direction  of  an  advocate  of  immediate  and  unconditional 
Abolition.    But  this  is  from  our  present  purpose.    That  purpose  is  to 


point  out  that  the  one  ^'purple  patch'^  in  that  inaugural^  the  one  passage 
of  which  the  casual  reader  is  likely  to  retain  any  recollection^  the  perora- 
tion, was  not  Lincoln's  at  all,  but  Seward's.  Yet  those  who  recall  it  at 
all  will  be  apt  to  cite  it  to  you  as  an  example  of  Lincoln's  eloquence. 
Seward  himself  was  perhaps  the  foremost  dialectician  and  even  more 
clearly  the  foremost  rhetorician  of  his  party,  a  far  better  exemplar  of  the 
use  of  the  English  language  than,  for  example,  Charles  Sumner,  with  his 
tropical  and  Corinthian  rhetorical  exuberance.  Here  is  Seward's  draft 
for  that  peroration : 

I  close.  We  are  not,  we  must  not  be,  aliens  or  enemies,  but  fellow  country- 
men and  brethren.  Although  pasHion  has  strained  our  bonds  of  affection  too 
hardly,  they  must  not,  I  am  sure  they  will  nut,  be  broken.  The  mystic  chords 
which,  proceeding  from  so  many  battlefields  and  so  many  patriot  graves,  pass 
through  all  the  hearts  and  all  the  hearths  in  this  broad  continent  of  ours  will 
yet  again  harmonize  in  their  ancient  music  when  breathed  upon  by  the  guardian 
angel  of  the  nation. 

And  here  is  Seward^s  contribution,  as  retouched  and  adopted  by  Lin- 
coln, and  as  it  stands  in  the  text  of  the  First  Inaugural : 

I  am  loath  to  close.  We  are  not  enemies  but  friends.  Though  passion  may 
have  strained,  it  must  not  break  our  bonds  of  affection.  The  mystic  chords  of 
memory,  stretching  from  every  battlefield  and  patriot  grave  to  every  living  heart 
and  hearthstone  all  over  this  broad  land,  will  yet  swell  the  chorus  of  the  Union, 
when  again  touched,  as  surely  they  will  be,  by  the  better  angels  of  our  nature. 

Lincoln's  version  will  be  admitted  to  be  an  improvement.  That  "I 
am  loath  to  close,"  as  who  might  say  "let  me  plead  with  you  yet  awhile 
longer,"  is  a  masterly  rhetorical  touch.  At  the  same  time  his  docility 
as  to  the  volunteered  contribution  to  a  performance  with  which  he  had 
taken  so  much  trouble,  and  about  which  he  might  have  been  expected  to 
cherish  a  paternal  pride  and  sensitiveness,  shows  him  to  have  been 
without  literary  vanity.  Which  is  admirable  in  its  way,  no  doubt.  But 
as  a  symptom  of  what  one  may  call  the  literary  instinct?  One  recalls 
Walter  Bagehot's  pregnant  remark  about  Sir  George  Comewall  Lewis 
and  the  dulness  of  his  writing : 

He  had  not,  indeed,  the  powers  of  a  great  literary  artist;  it  was  not  in  his 
way  to  look  at  style  as  an  alluring  art.  He  wanted  to  express  his  opinion,  and 
cared  for  nothing  else.  He  had  no  literary  vanity;  and  without  the  vanity  that 
loves  applause,  few  indeed  cultivate  the  tact  that  gains  applause. 

Possibly  it  was  Lincoln's  docility  in  this  question  of  mere  form  which 
encouraged  Seward's  appointment  of  himself  to  the  position  of  Mentor 
to  the  uncouth  Western  Telemachus,  and  helped  to  bring  about  in  him 
the  delusion  that  the  pupil  who  had  been  so  amenable  in  a  matter  of 

124  THE  FORUM 

style  would  be  equally  amenable  in  things  of  substance.  His  undeception 
was  rapid  and  completey  as  has  been  especially  shown  by  Mr.  Eoths- 
child  in  his  study  "Lincoln,  Master  of  Men"  And  Seward's  loyal  ac- 
ceptance of  the  actual  situation — "The  President  is  the  best  of  us" — 
is  as  creditable  a  fact  as  one  knows  or  needs  to  know  about  the  man  who 
had  gone  into  the  Cabinet  with  the  general  belief,  which  he  shared,  that 
he  was  the  leader  of  the  Bepublican  party  and  his  successful  competitor 
for  the  Presidency  but  its  figure-head. 

The  next  of  the  messages  is,  of  course,  the  message  of  July  4,  1861, 
to  the  special  session  of  Congress  convoked  to  consider  ways  and  means 
for  suppressing  the  insurrection.  It  is  a  lawyerlike  message,  much  more 
lawyerlike  than  literary.  Part  of  its  purport  is  to  show  that  secession 
had  not  been  peaceable  but  aggressive,  and  that  the  firing  on  Fort  Sumter 
had  been  an  improvoked  act  of  war.  Rhetorically  considered,  one  has  to 
note  that  it  abounds,  as  for  that  matter  do  all  the  state  papers  of  its 
author,  in  split  infinitives.  But  one  has  also  to  note  that  the  split 
infinitive  was  by  no  means  the  anti-shibboleth  in  1861  that  it  has  come 
to  be  in  1909.  Not  until  McKinley's  time  could  it  be  feigned,  even  so 
plausibly  as  to  invoke  hilarity,  that  the  President  had  invited  a  friend 
to  the  White  House  to  partake  of  a  "split  infinitive  and  soda.*^  There 
was  a  locution  in  that  special  message  which  had  been  made  the  subject 
of  remonstrance  in  the  Cabinet  with  tlie  Presidential  author,  as  infra  dig., 
and  the  author  had  replied  to  the  remonstrance  that  he  thought 
it  would  be  understood  as  long  as  the  message  in  which  it  was  embodiied 
concerned  anybody.  It  was  in  truth  rather  temerarious  for  a  President's 
message,  viz  : 

With  rebellion  thus  sugar-coated  they  have  been  drugging  the  public  mind  of 
their  section  for  more  than  thirty  years — 

but  we  cannot  fairly  say  of  it  that  there  was  an  overdose  of  "vulgarity" 
in  this  "racy  idiom  .^'  One's  attention  is  rather  concentrated  on  the 
"pui-ple  patch"  which,  as  usual,  was  the  "peroration"  and  which  was  in 
these  terms: 

And  having  thus  chosen  our  course,  without  guile  and  with  pure  purpose, 
let  ua  renew  our  trust  in  God,  and  go  forward  without  fear  and  with  manly 

which,  as  was  evident  to  more  readers,  perhaps,  in  1861  than  in  1909, 
is  a  transcription,  so  literal  as  to  be  beyond  the  reproach  of  intended 
plagiarism,  from  Longfellow's  Hyperion:  "Go  forth  to  meet  the 
Shadowy  Future  without  fear,  and  with  a  manly  heart.^* 

The  First  Annual  Message  (December  3,  1861)  contains  nothing  to 


our  present  purpose.  The  bulk  of  it  is  given  to  a  purely  formal  and 
perfunctory  recital  of  the  operations  of  the  Government,  such  as  might 
have  been  contributed  by  any  heads  of  departments,  or,  for  that  matter, 
by  any  well-informed  clerks  in  the  several  departments,  having  neither 
the  reality  nor  the  pretension  of  individual  "style'^  in  presentation.  There 
is  no  rhetorical  peroration.  The  logical  peroration  is  a  highly  character- 
istic argument,  most  plainly  Lincolnian,  to  show  that  the  Confederacy 
was  reverting  to  aristocratic  and  feudal  political  ideals,  and  that  the  hope 
of  the  oppressed  and  suppressed  of  all  mankind  lay  in  the  triumph  of 
the  Union  arms.  One  can  hardly  read  this  calm  argumentation  without 
wonder  that  it  should  have  been  so  calm,  that  it  should  not  anywhere  have 
been  "touched  with  emotion"  to  some  rhetorical  glow. 

And  quite  as  great  is  one's  wonder  that  the  next  of  the  important 
Presidential  deliverances,  the  Emancipation  Proclamation  itself,  should 
have  preserved  this  pedestrian  gait.  For  this  also  is  as  dry  a  recital  as  the 
most  technical  of  courts  could  have  required  or  the  most  technical  of 
conveyancers  have  produced,  of  the  exact  scope  and  purport  of  the  pre- 
liminary and  provisional  proclamation  of  the  previous  September,  to 
which  this  one  gave  exactitude.  There  is,  indeed,  one  rhetorical  passage, 
one  "purple  patch,"  the  one  paragraph  which  the  memory  of  the  ordinary 
reader  might  ^nd  memorable.  And  it  is  curious  to  note  that,  as  the 
one  memorable  passage  of  the  inaugural  should  have  been  that  applied  by 
Seward,  so  the  one  memorable  passage  of  the  Emancipation  Proclamation 
should  have  been  that  furnished  by  Salmon  P.  Chase.  Here  is  the  pas- 
sage. To  save  space,  the  three  words  added  by  Lincoln  to  Chase's  draft 
are  enclosed  in  the  first  parenthesis,  and  the  ten  words  deleted  from  it 
by  Lincoln  in  the  second : 

And  upon  this  act,  sincerely  believed  to  be  an  act  of  justice  warranted  by  the 
Constitution  (upon  military  necessity),  (and  of  duty  demanded  by  the  circum- 
stances of  the  country)  I  invoke  the  considerate  judgment  of  mankind  and  the 
gracious  favor  of  Almighty  God. 

Without  doubt  the  deletion  is  an  improvement  in  all  senses.  With- 
out doubt  the  interjected  reservation  was  politically  and  legally  demanded. 
But,  rhetorically,  how  awkward  it  is,  how  careless  of  form,  how  careless 
of  the  popular  impression  the  proclamation  was  meant  to  produce.  In- 
deed, how  destructive  the  awkward  interjection  might  have  been,  had 
public  opinion  been  more  evenly  balanced  and  not,  by  that  time,  been 
exerting  an  irresistible  pressure  upon  the  President.  As  to  Lincoln's 
magnanimity,  this  acceptance  of  Chase's  emendation  to  the  Emancipation 
Proclamation  speaks  even  more  emphatically  than  his  acceptance  of 
Seward's  emendation  to  the  first  Inaugural.     For  from  the  day  when 

126  *1IE  FoitUM 

Chase  entered  the  Cabinet  to  the  day  when  he  left  it  to  take  the  Chief 
Justiceship,  he  was  a  thorn  in  the  side  of  his  chief.  Nor  was  his  chief's 
magnanimity  repaid  in  his  case,  as  it  was  in  the  case  of  Seward,  by  a 
corresponding  magnanimity  on  his  side.  At  any  rate,  the  absence  of 
"literary  vanity"  on  the  part  of  Lincoln  had  here  its  most  crucial 

The  Second  Annual  Message  (December,  1862)  consists,  as  to  two- 
thirds  of  it,  like  the  first,  in  the  "bald  and  unconvincing  narratives"  of 
the  operations  of  the  Government  in  its  several  departments.  The  last 
third  is  quite  unmistakably  the  individual  work  of  the  President,  being, 
in  fact,  an  argument  in  favor  of  his  scheme  of  emancipation  with  com- 
pensation to  loyal  owners.  It  has  all  the  frankness  and  candor  which 
marked  his  parts  in  forensic  struggles  and  political  debates.  But  here, 
again,  the  "peroration,"  instead  of  being  the  culmination  and  summary 
of  the  reasoning  of  the  argument,  heightened  into  rhetorical  loftiness  by 
the  reasoner's  own  emotion,  lifted  "to  the  height  of  that  great  argument," 
is  extraneous,  almost  irrelevant  to  the  preceding  argumentation.  Dis- 
tinctly, adsuitur.  But  how  good  it  is  in  itself,  very  nearly  its  author's 
best.  I  omit  the  frequent  italicization  of  the  original,  which  really  adds 
nothing : 

Fellow-citizens,  we  cannot  escape  history.  We  of  this  Congress  and  the 
Administration  will  be  remembered  in  spite  of  ourselves.  No  personal  significance 
or  insignificance  can  spare  one  or  another  of  us.  The  fiery  trial  through  which 
we  pass  will  light  us  down,  in  honor  or  dishonor,  to  the  latest  generation.  We 
say  that  we  are  for  the  Union.  The  world  will  not  forget  that  we  say  this. 
We  know  how  to  save  the  Union.  The  world  knows  that  we  do  know  how  to  save 
it.  We — even  we  here — ^liold  the  power  and  bear  the  responsibility.  In  giving 
freedom  to  the  slave,  we  assure  freedom  to  the  free — ^honorable  alike  in  what  we 
give  and  what  we  presei*ve.  We  shall  nobly  save,  or  meanly  lose,  the  last,  best 
hope  of  earth.  Other  means  may  succeed,  this  could  not  fail.  The  way  is  plain, 
peaceful,  generous,  just — a  way  which,  if  followed,  the  world  will  forever  applaud 
and  God  must  forever  bless. 

The  fairly  well-read  English  reader  will,  of  course,  be  reminded  by 
those  first  three  sentences  of  the  expression  of  the  like  thought  in  the 
conclusion  of  Burke's  summing-up  against  Warren  Hastings,  a  compo- 
sition which  it  is  higlily  unlikely  that  Lincoln  had  ever  seen : 

A  business  which  has  so  long  occupied  the  councils  and  the  tribunals  of 
Great  Britain  cannot  possibly  be  huddled  over  in  the  course  of  vulgar,  trite  and 
transitory  events.  .  .  .  My  Lords,  we  are  all  elevated  to  a  degiee  of  importance 
by  it;  the  meanest  of  us  will,  by  means  of  it,  more  or  less  become  the  concern  of 

How  satisfactory  to  one's  patriotic  pride  to  find  that  the  utterance 


of  the  unBchooled  American  comes  out  so  well  in  comparison  with  what 
one  may  plausibly  call  the  masterpiece  of  the  most  consummate  rheto- 
rician who  has  ever  as  an  orator  handled  the  English  language.  While  in 
the  fourth  sentence  the  American  forges  in  his  heat  the  brand-new 
metaphor  of  the  illuminating  torch  lighted  by  the  "fiery  trial."  It  is 
worthy  of  Bui^ke,  worthy  of  anybody,  and  quite  at  the  highest  level  of 

The  Third  Annual  Message  contains  little  to  our  present  purpose. 
As  little  does  the  fourth.  The  bulk  of  each,  again,  is  a  cento  of  the  con- 
tributions of  the  heads  of  departments,  of  which  Seward's  part,  the  part 
relating  to  foreign  relations,  is,  as  a  matter  of  course,  well  and  easily 
written,  and  the  other  departmental  contributions  as  it  might  please 
Providence.  But,  in  the  minor  share  fairly  attributable  to  the  President's 
own  pen,  one  cannot  fail  to  note  the  increase  of  ease  which  came  with 
increasing  conversance  with  great  affairs,  and  with  increasing  practice  in 
this  form  of  composition.  Horace  Greeley's  "culture"  was  perhaps  about 
on  a  level  with  Lincoln's,  though  Greeley  had  the  more  schooling,  Lincoln 
having  never  had  any.  In  their  controversial  correspondence,  however, 
one  cannot  fail  to  discern  the  advantage  which  the  more  practised  publicist 
had  by  reason  of  his  more  pointed  and  popular  style,  a  style  to  which  the 
late  Mr.  Godkin,  himself  an  academically  trained  scholar,  rendered  just 
tribute  in  a  letter  quoted  by  his  biographer.  But  all  the  same,  these  later 
messages  of  Lincoln,  offering,  as  they  do,  so  little  that  is  quotable,  never 
"bringing  the  light  of  general  culture  to  illuminate  the  technicalities 
of  a  particular  pursuit,"  nor  rising  into  philosophic  generalities  beyond 
the  need  of  the  actual  occasion,  as  is  the  wont  of  born  or  highly  trained 
writers,  have  yet  increasingly  the  air  of  a  connaissance  des  choses.  They 
recall  Clarendon's  enforced  praise  of  Cromwell: 

When  he  appeared  first  in  the  Parliament,  he  seemed  to  have  a  Person  in 
no  degree  gracious,  no  ornament  of  discourse,  none  of  those  Talents  which  use  to 
conciliate  the  Affections  of  the  Stander  by:  yet  as  he  grew  into  Place  and 
Authority,  his  parts  seemed  to  be  raised  as  if  he  had  concealed  Faculties,  till  he 
had  occasion  to  use  them;  and  when  he  was  to  act  the  part  of  a  Great  Man, 
he  did  it  without  any  indecency,  notwithstanding  the  want  of  Custom. 

The  only  sentence  one  can  cite  of  these  two  messages  applicable  to 
our  present  inquiry,  is  the  last  of  the  third  message,  setting  forth  the 
high  claims  of  the  Army  and  Navy  upon  the  national  gratitude : 

The  gallant  men,  from  commander  to  sentinel,  who  compose  them,  and  to 
whom  more  than  to  others^  the  world  must  stand  indebted  for  the  house  of  free- 
dom disenthralled,  regenerated,  enlarged  and  perpetuated. 

Which,  one  would  say,  was  a  distorted  schoolboy  memory  of  what 

128  ^™*^  FORUM 

Charles  Beade's  American  calls  "Counsellor  Curran's  bnnkmn'^ — ^*'re- 
deemed^  r^enerated  and  disenthralled  by  the  irresistible  genius  of  uni- 
versal emancipation'^ — ^unless  one  happened  to  recollect  that  Lincoln 
never  was  a  schoolboy ! 

In  the  second  Inaugural^  without  question  he  rises  again  to  his 
greatest  height,  even  to  *^e  height  of  that  great  argument."  The  more 
the  pily  for  the  single  blemish : 

Fondly  do  we  hope — fervently  do  we  pray — that  this  mighty  scourge  of 
war  may  speedily  pass  away.  Yet^  if  God  wills  that  it  continue  until  all  the 
wealth  piled  by  the  bondman's  two  hundred  and  fifty  years  of  unrequited  toil 
shall  be  sunk,  and  until  every  drop  of  blood  drawn  with  the  lash  shall  be  paid 
with  another  drawn  with  the  sword,  as  was  said  three  thousand  years  ago,  so 
still  it  must  be  said,  ''The  judgments  of  the  Lord  are  true  and  righteous 

With  malice  toward  none;  with  charity  for  all;  with  firmness  in  the  right, 
as  God  gives  us  to  see  the  right,  let  us  strive  to  finish  the  work  we  are  in;  to 
bind  up  the  nation's  wounds;  to  care  for  him  who  shall  have  borne  the  battle,  and 
for  his  widow,  and  his  orphan — ^to  do  all  which  may  achieve  and  cherish  a  just  and 
lasting  peace  among  ourselves  and  with  all  nations. 

What  a  pity  about  that  jingling  first  sentence.  How  can  one  help 
scanning  it  as  metre,  and  even  throwing  it  into  metrical  form,  as  was 
done  by  the  contemporaneous  Copperhead  scoffers: 

Fondly  do  we  hope,  fervently  do  we  pray 

That  this  mighty  scourge  of  war  may  speedily  pass  away. 

Truly,  ^'a  style  impossible  to  a  born  man  of  letters.^'  It  does  what 
one  imlucky  slip  can  do  to  discredit  what  follows.  But  what  follows  is 
undiscreditable.  It  is  as  if  the  speaker  felt  already  the  shadow  of  the 
catastrophe  already  impending,  which  was  so  suddenly,  and  in  the  next 
ensuing  month,  to  befall.  It  was,  as  it  were,  the  unconscious  realization 
of  that  tremendous  couplet  of  Richard  Baxter: 

I  preached  as  never  sure  to  preach  again. 
And  as  a  dying  man  to  dying  men. 

That  citation  will  have  to  do.  "Facit  indignatio  versum,"  says 
Juvenal.  "Ye  hae  gotten  to  your  English,*'  quotes  Walter  Scott  of  the 
discourse  of  his  countr3rwomen,  when  rapt  by  passion  into  eloquence. 
"The  speech  of  a  man  even  in  zealous  anger  becomes  a  chant,  a  song,*' 
says  Carlyle.  And  this  once,  these  twice,  the  untutored  Lincoln  rose  to 
the  height  of  his  great  argument.  Thereby  he  assured  his  place  among 
the  masters  of  English  speech. 

Montgomery  Schuyler, 




I  HAYS  been  asked  to  give  some  exposition  of  how  far  and  for  what 
reason  a  man  who  has  not  only  a  faith  in  democracy,  but  a  great  tenderness 
for  revolution,  may  nevertheless  stand  outside  the  movement  commonly 
called  Socialism.  If  I  am  to  do  this  I  must  make  two  prefatory  state- 
ments. The  first  is  a  short  platitude;  the  second  is  a  rather  long  per- 
sonal explanation.  But  they  both  have  to  be  stated  before  we  get 
on  to  absolute  doctrines,  which  are  the  most  important  things  in  the 

The  terse  and  necessary  truism  is  the  expression  of  ordinary  human 
disgust  at  the  industrial  system.  To  say  that  I  do  not  like  the  present 
state  of  wealth  and  poverty  is  merely  to  say  I  am  not  a  devil  in  human 
form.  No  one  but  Satan  or  Beelzebub  could  like  the  present  state  of 
wealth  and  poverty.  But  the  second  point  is  rather  more  personal  and 
elaborate;  and  yet  I  think  that  it  will  make  things  clearer  to  explain  it. 

Before  I  come  to  the  actual  proposals  of  Collectivism,  I  want  to  say 
something  about  the  atmosphere  and  implication  of  those  proposals. 
Before  I  say  anything  about  Socialism,  I  should  like  to  say  something 
about  Socialists. 

I  will  confess  that  I  attach  much  more  importance  to  men's  theoretical 
arguments  than  to  their  practical  proposals.  I  attach  more  importance  to 
what  is  said  than  to  what  is  done ;  what  is  said  generally  lasts  much  longer 
and  has  much  more  influence.  I  can  imagine  no  change  worse  for  public 
life  than  that  which  some  prigs  advocate,  that  debate  should  Be  curtailed. 
A  man's  arguments  show  what  he  is  really  up  to.  Until  you  have  heard 
the  defence  of  a  proposal,  you  do  not  really  know  even  the  proposal. 
Thus,  for  instance,  if  a  man  says  to  me,  "Taste  this  temperance  drink," 
I  have  merely  doubt,  slightly  tinged  with  distaste.  But  if  he  says,  "Taste 
it,  because  your  wife  would  make  a  charming  widow,''  then  I  decide.  I 
would  be  openly  moved  in  my  choice  of  an  institution,  not  by  its  im- 
mediate proposals  for  practice,  but  very  much  by  its  incidental,  even 
its  accidental,  allusion  to  ideals.  I  judge  many  things  by  their  paren- 

Socialistic  Idealism  does  not  attract  me  very  much,  even  as  Idealism. 
The  glimpses  it  gives  of  our  future  happiness  depress  me  very  much.  They 
do  not  remind  me  of  any  actual  human  happiness,  of  any  happy  day  that 
I  have  ever  myself  spent.  No  doubt  there  are  many  Socialists  who  feel 
this,  and  there  are  many  who  will  reply  that  it  has  nothing  to  do  with 

120  '^^^^  FOBUH 

the  actual  proposal  of  SocialisiiL  But  my  point  is  that  I  do  not  admit 
such  allufflTe  elements  into  mv  choice.  To  cite  one  instance  of  the  kind 
of  thing  I  mean.  Almost  all  Socialist  Utopias  make  the  happine^  or  at 
least  the  altruistic  happiness  of  the  future  chiefly  consL^  in  the  pleasure 
of  sharing,  as  we  share  a  public  park  or  the  mustard  at  a  restaurant. 
This  is  the  commonest  sentiment  in  Socialist  writing. 

Socialists  are  Collectiirist  in  their  proposals.  But  they  are  Com- 
munist in  their  ideaUsm.  Xow  there  is  a  real  pleasure  in  sharing.  We 
have  all  felt  it  in  the  case  of  nuts  off  a  tree,  and  such  things.  But  it  is 
not  the  only  pleasure  nor  the  only  altruistic  pleasure,  nor  (I  think)  the 
highest  or  most  human  of  altruistic  pleasures.  I  greatly  prefer  the 
pleasure  of  giving  and  receiving.  Giving  is  not  the  same  as  sharing; 
giving  is  even  the  opposite  of  sharing.  Sharing  is  based  on  the  idea  that 
there  is  no  property,  or  at  least  no  personal  property.  But  giving  a 
thing  to  another  man  is  as  much  based  on  personal  property  as  keeping 
it  to  yourself.  If  after  some  universal  interchange  of  generosities  every 
one  was  wearing  some  one  else's  hat,  that  state  of  things  would  still  be 
based  upon  private  property. 

I  am  quite  serious  and  sincere  when  I  say  that  I  for  one  should 
greatly  prefer  that  world  in  which  every  one  wore  some  one  else's  hat  to 
every  Socialist  Utopia  that  I  have  ever  read  about.  It  is  better  than  shar- 
ing one  hat,  anyhow.  Remember,  we  are  not  now  considering  the  modem 
problem  and  its  urgent  solution;  but  only  the  ideal;  what  we  would 
have  if  we  could  get  it.  And  if  I  were  a  poet  writing  an  Utopia,  if  I 
were  a  magician  waving  a  wand,  if  I  were  a  God  making  a  planet,  I 
would  deliberately  make  it  a  world  of  give  and  take,  rather  than  a  world 
of  sharing. 

I  do  not  wish  Jones  and  Brown  to  share  the  same  cigar  box ;  I  do  not 
want  it  as  an  ideal ;  I  do  not  want  it  as  a  very  remote  ideal;  I  do  not  want 
it  at  all.  I  want  Jones  by  one  mystical  and  godlike  act  to  give  a  cigar 
to  Brown,  and  Brown  by  another  mystical  and  godlike  act  to  give  a  cigar 
to  Jones.  Thus,  it  seems  to  me,  instead  of  one  act  of  fellowship  (of 
which  the  memory  would  slowly  fade)  we  should  have  a  continual 
play  and  energy  of  new  acts  of  fellowship  keeping  up  the  circulation  of 

I  have  read  some  tons  or  square  miles  of  Socialist  eloquence  in  my 
time,  but  it  is  literally  true  that  I  have  never  seen  any  serious  allusion 
to  or  clear  consciousness  of  this  creative  altruism  of  personal  giving. 
For  instance,  in  the  many  Utopian  pictures  of  comrades  feasting  together, 
I  do  not  remember  one  that  had  the  note  of  hospitality,  of  the  difference 
between  host  and  guest  and  the  difference  between  one  house  and  another. 


No  one  brings  up  the  port  that  his  father  laid  down;  no  one  is  proud 
of  the  pears  grown  in  his  own  garden. 

Keep  in  mind,  please,  the  purpose  of  this  article.  I  do  not  say  that 
these  gifts  and  hospitalities  would  not  happen  in  a  Collectivist  state.  I  do 
say  that  they  do  not  happen  in  Collectivists'  instinctive  visions  of  that 
state.  I  *do  not  aver  these  things  would  not  occur  under  Socialism.  I 
say  they  do  not  occur  to  Socialists.  I  know  quite  well  that  the  im- 
mediate answer  will  be,  '^Oh,  but  there  is  nothing  in  the  Socialist  pro- 
posal to  prevent  personal  gift."  That  is  why  I  explain  thus  elaborately 
that  I  attach  less  importance  to  the  proposal  than  to  the  spirit  in  which 
it  is  proposed. 

When  a  great  revolution  is  made,  it  is  seldom  the  fulfilment  of  its 
own  exact  formula;  but  it  is  almost  always  in  the  image  of  its  own  im- 
pulse and  feeling  for  life.  Men  talk  of  unfulfilled  ideals.  But  the  ideals 
are  fulfilled ;  because  spiritual  life  is  renewed.  What  is  not  fulfilled,  as  a 
rule,  is  the  business  prospectus.  Thus  the  Revolution  has  not  established 
in  France  any  of  the  strict  constitutions  it  planned  out ;  but  it  has  estab- 
lished in  France  the  spirit  of  eighteenth  century  democracy,  with  its 
cool  reason,  its  bourgeois  dignity,  its  well-distributed  but  very  private 
wealth,  its  universal  minimum  of  good  manners. 

Just  so,  if  Socialism  is  established,  they  may  not  fulfil  their  practical 
proposals.  But  they  will  certainly  fulfil  their  ideal  vision.  And  I  con- 
fess that  if  Socialists  have  forgotten  these  important  human  mat- 
ters in  the  telling  of  a  leisurely  tale,  I  think  it  very  likely  they  will 
forget  them  in  the  scurry  of  a  social  revolution.  They  have  left  certain 
human  needs  out  of  their  books;  they  may  leave  them  out  of  their 

I  happen  to  hold  a  view  which  is  almost  unknown  among  Socialists, 
Anarchists,  Liberals  and  Conservatives.  I  believe  very  strongly  in  the 
mass  of  the  common  people.  I  do  not  mean  in  their  "potentialities,"  I 
mean  in  their  faces,  in  their  habits,  and  their  admirable  language.  Caught 
in  the  trap  of  a  terrible  industrial  machinery,  harried  by  a  shameful 
economic  cruelty,  surrounded  with  an  ugliness  and  desolation  never  en- 
dured before  among  men,  stunted  by  a  stupid  and  provincial  religion,  or 
by  a  more  stupid  and  more  provincial  irreligion,  the  poor  are  still 
by  far  the  sanest,  joUiest,  and  most  reliable  part  of  the  community. — 
Whether  they  agree  with  Socialism  as  a  narrow  proposal  is  difficult  to 

They  will  vote  for  Socialists  as  they  will  for  other  parties,  because  they 
want  certain  things,  or  don*t  want  them.  But  one  thing  I  should  affirm 
as  certain,  the  whole  smell  and  sentiment  and  general  ideal  of  Socialism 

132  THE  FORUM 

they  detest  and  disdain.  No  part  of  the  community  is  so  specially  fixed 
in  those  forms  and  feelings  which  are  opposite  to  the  tone  of  most 
Socialists;  the  privacy  of  homes^  the  control  of  one's  own  children,  the 
minding  of  one^s  own  business.  I  look  out  of  my  back  windows  over  the 
black  stretch  of  Battersea,  and  1  believe  I  could  make  up  a  sort  of  creed, 
a  catalogue  of  maxims,  which  I  am  certain  are  believed,  and  believed 
strongly,  by  the  overwhelming  mass  of  men  and  women  as  far  as  the  eye 
can  reach.  For  instance,  that  a  man's  house  is  his  castle,  and  that  awful 
properties  ought  to  regulate  admission  to  it;  that  marriage  is  a  real 
bond,  making  jealousy  and  marital  revenge  at  the  least  highly  pardonable; 
that  vegetarianism  and  all  pitting  of  animal  against  human  rights  is  a 
silly  fad;  that  on  the  other  hand  to  save  money  to  give  yourself  a  fine 
funeral  is  not  a  silly  fad,  but  a  symbol  of  ancestral  self-respect;  that 
when  giving  treats  to  friends  or  children  one  should  give  them  what 
they  like,  emphatically  not  what  is  good  for  them ;  that  there  is  nothing 
illogical  in  being  furious  because  Tommy  had  been  coldly  caned  by  a 
schoolmistress  and  then  throwing  saucepans  at  him  yourself.  All  these 
things  they  believe;  they  are  the  only  people  who  do  believe  them;  and 
they  are  absolutely  and  eternally  right.  They  are  the  ancient  sanities  of 
humanity;  the  ten  commandments  of  men. 

I  wish  to  point  out  that  if  Socialism  is  imposed  on  these  people,  it  will 
in  moral  actuality  be  an  imposition  and  nothing  else;  just  as  the  crea- 
tion of  Manchester  industrialism  was  an  imposition  and  nothing  else. 
You  may  get  them  to  give  a  vote  for  Socialism;  so  did  Manchester  indi- 
vidualists get  them  to  give  votes  for  Manchester.  But  they  do  not  be- 
lieve in  the  Socialist  ideal  any  more  than  they  ever  believed  in  the  Man- 
chester ideal;  they  are  too  healthy  to  believe  in  either.  But  while  they 
are  healthy,  they  are  also  vague,  slow,  bewildered,  and  unaccustomed, 
alas,  to  civil  war.  Individualism  was  imposed  on  them  by  a  handful  of 
merchants;  Socialism  will  be  imposed  on  them  by  a  handful  of  decorative 
artists  and  college  dons  and  journalists  and  Countesses  on  the  Spree. 
Whether,  like  every  other  piece  of  oligarchic  humbug  in  recent  history,  it 
is  done  with  a  parade  of  ballet-boxes,  interests  me  very  little.  The  moral 
fact  is  that  the  democracy  definitely  dislikes  the  Socialists'  favorite 
philosophy,  but  may  accept 'it  like  so  many  others,  rather  than  take  the 
trouble  to  resist. 

Thinking  thus,  as  I  do,  Socialism  does  not  hold  the  field  for  me  as  it 
does  for  others.  My  eyes  are  fixed  on  another  thing  altogether,  a  thing 
that  may  move  or  not;  but  which,  if  it  does  move,  will  crush  Socialism 
with  one  hand  and  landlordism  with  the  other.  They  will  destroy  land- 
lordism, not  because  it  is  property,  but  because  it  is  the  negation  of  prop- 


erty.  It  is  the  negation  of  property  that  the  Duke  of  Westminfiter  should 
own  whole  streets  and  squares  of  London ;  just  as  it  would  be  the  negation 
of  marriage  if  he  had  all  living  women  in  one  great  harem.  If  ever  the 
actual  poor  do  move  to  destroy  this  evil,  they  will  do  it  with  the  object 
not  only  of  giving  every  man  private  property,  but  very  specially  private 
property;  they  will  probably  exaggerate  in  that  direction;  for  in  that 
direction  is  the  whole  humor  and  poetry  of  their  own  lives.  For  the 
Kevolution,  if  they  make  it,  there  will  be  all  the  features  which  they  like 
and  I  like;  the  strong  sense  of  coziness,  the  instinct  for  special  festival, 
the  distinction  between  the  dignities  of  man  and  woman,  responsibility 
of  a  man  under  his  roof. 

If  Socialists  make  the  Revolution  it  will  be  marked  by  all  the  things 
that  democracy  detests  and  I  detest;  the  talk  about  the  inevitable,  the 
love  of  statistics,  the  materialist  theoiy  of  history,  the  trivialities  of  So- 
ciology, and  the  uproarious  folly  of  Eugenics.  I  know  the  answer  of  So- 
cialism; I  know  the  risks  I  run.  Perhaps  democracy  will  never  move. 
Perhaps  the  people,  if  you  gave  them  beer  enough,  would  accept  even 
Eugenics.  It  is  enough  for  me  for  the  moment  to  say  that  I  cannot  be- 
lieve it.  The  poor  are  so  obviously  right,  I  cannot  fancy  that  they  will 
never  enforce  their  rightness  against  all  the  prigs  of  the  Socialist  party 
and  mine.  At  any  rate  that  is  why  I  am  not  a  Socialist,  just  as  I  am  not 
a  Tory;  because  I  have  not  lost  faith  in  democracy. 

Oilhert  K.  Chesterton, 

Prelude  to  "An  Ode  on  the  Centenary  of  Abraham  Lincoln" 


It  was  the  season  bleak 

Of  silence  and  long  night 

And  solemn  starshine  and  large  solitude ; 

Hardly  more  husht  the  world  when  first  the  word 

Of  God  creation  stirred. 

Far  steept  in  wilderness.    By  the  frore  creek. 

Mute  in  the  moon,  the  sculptured  stag  in  flight 

iThese  verses  are  the  opening  lines  of  a  longer  poem,  which  the  author  will 
deliver  before  the  Brooklyn  Institute  of  Arts  and  Sciences  on  February  7th, 
and  they  are  published  here  by  special  arrangement  with  the  Brooklyn  Institute 
and  with  the  Macmillan  Company,  who  will  publish  the  complete  Ode  in  book 
form  during  the  present  month. 

134  THE  FORUM 

Paused^  panting  silver ;  in  her  oedam  lair^ 

Crouched  with  her  starveling  litter,  the  numb  lynx 

Winked  the  keen  hoar-frost,  quiet  as  a  sphinx; 

On  the  lone  forest  trail 

Only  the  coyote's  wail 

Quivered,  and  ceased. 

It  was  the  chrisom  rude 

Of  winter  and  wild  beast 

That  consecrated,  by  harsh  nature's  rite, 

A  meagre  cabin  crude, 

Builded  of  logs  and  bark. 

To  be  a  pilgrim  nation's  hallowed  ark 

And  shrine  the  goal  aspiring  ages  seek. 

No  ceremonial 

Of  pealed  chime  was  there,  or  blarM  horn. 

Such  as  hath  blazoned  births  of  lesser  kings. 

When  he — the  elder  brother  of  us  all, 

Lincoln — was  bom. 

At  his  nativity 

Want  stood  as  sponsor,  stark  Obscurity 

Was  midwife,  and  all  lonely  things 

Of  nature  were  unconscious  ministers 

To  endow  his  spirit  meek 

With  their  own  melancholy.    So  when  he — 

An  infant  king  of  commoners — 

Lay  in  his  mother's  arms,  of  all  the  earth 

(Which  now  his  fame  wears  for  a  diadem) 

None  heeded  of  his  birth ; 

Only  a  star  burned  over  Betlilehem 

More  bright,  and  big  with  prophecy 

A  secret  gust  from  that  far  February 

Fills  now  the  organ-reeds  that  peal  his  centenary. 

Percy  Mackaye, 




One  reason  why  journalism  is  a  lesser  thing  than  literature  is  that  it 
subserves  the  tyranny  of  timeliness.  It  narrates  the  events  of  the  day 
and  discusses  the  topics  of  the  hour,  for  the  sole  reason 
Journalism  ^^^^  ^^®y  happ^n  for  the  moment  to  float  uppermost 

and  upon  the  current  of  human  experience.  The  flotsam  of  this 

Literature  current  may  occasionally  have  dived  up  from  the  depths 

and  may  give  a  glimpse  of  some  underlying  secret  of  the 
eea ;  but  most  often  it  merely  drifts  upon  the  surface,  indicative  of  nothing 
except  which  way  the  wind  lies.  Whatever  topic  is  the  most  timely  to-day 
is  doomed  to  be  the  most  untimely  to-morrow.  Where  are  the  journals  of 
yester-year?  Dig  them  out  of  dusty  files,  and  all  that  they  say  will  seem 
wearisomely  olS,  for  the  very  reason  that  when  it  was  written  it  seemed 
spiritedly  new.  Whatever  wears  a  date  upon  its  forehead  will  soon  be 
out  of  date.  The  main  interest  of  news  is  newness;  and  nothing  slips  so 
soon  behind  the  times  as  novelty. 

With  timeliness,  as  an  incentive,  literature  has  absolutely  no  concern. 
Its  purpose  is  to  reveal  what  was  and  is  and  evermore  shall  be.  It  can 
never  grow  old,  for  the  reason  that  it  has  never  attempted  to  be  new. 
Early  in  the  nineteenth  century  the  gentle  Elia  revolted  from  the  tyranny 
of  timeliness.  "Hang  the  present  age  \"  said  he,  "I'll  write  for  antiquity.'' 
The  timely  utterances  of  his  contemporaries  have  passed  away  with  the 
times  that  called  them  forth:  his  essays  live  perennially  new.  In  the 
dateless  realm  of  revelation,  antiquity  joins  hands  with  futurity.  There 
can  be  nothing  either  new  or  old  in  any  utterance  which  is  really  true  or 
beautiful  or  right. 

In  considering  a  given  subject,  journalism  seeks  to  discover  what 
there  is  in  it  that  belongs  to  the  moment,  and  literature  seeks  to  reveal 
what  there  is  in  it  that  belongs  to  eternity.  To  journalism  facts  are  im- 
portant because  they  are  facts;  to  literature  they  are  important  only  in 
so  far  as  they  are  representative  of  recurrent  truths.  Journalism  re- 
cords the  fact  that  the  Sabbath  services  of  Trinity  Church  in  New  York 
City  are  maintained  by  an  income  squeezed  out  of  squalid  tenements 
which  breed  disease,  and  that  the  corporation  of  the  church  is  about  to 

136  THE  FOKUM 

abandon  religious  ministrations  in  a  chapel  of  aesthetic  beauty  and  anti- 
quarian interest  because  the  services  no  longer  pay.  Concerning  the  same 
subject,  literature  said  something  everlasting  when  it  remarked  that  many 
people  cry  aloud  in  public,  "Lord!  Lord!"  to  a  Deity  that  knows 
them  not. 

Literature  speaks  because  it  has  something  to  say :  journalism  speaks 
because  the  public  wants  to  be  talked  to.  Literature  is  an  emanation  from 
an  inward  impulse:  but  the  motive  of  journalism  is  external;  it  is 
fashioned  to  supply  a  demand  outside  itself.  It  is  frequently  said,  and 
is  sometimes  believed,  that  the  province  of  journalism  is  to  mould  public 
opinion ;  but  a  consideration  of  actual  conditions  indicates  rather  that  its 
province  is  to  find  out  what  the  opinion  of  some  section  of  the  public  is, 
and  then  to  formulate  it  and  express  it.  The  successful  journalist  tells 
his  readers  what  they  want  to  be  told.  He  becomes  their  prophet  by 
making  clear  to  them  what  they  themselves  are  thinking.  He  influences 
people  by  agreeing  with  them.  In  doing  this  he  may  be  entirely  sincere, 
for  his  readers  may  be  right  and  may  demand  from  him  the  statement  of 
his  own  most  serious  convictions;  but  the  fact  remains  that  his  motive 
for  expression  is  centred  in  them  instead  of  in  himself.  It  is  not  thus 
that  literature  is  motivated.  Literature  is  not  a  formulation  of  public 
opinion,  but  an  expression  of  personal  and  particular  belief.  For  this 
reason  it  is  more  likely  to  be  true.  Public  opinion  is  seldom  so  important 
as  private  opinion.  Socrates  was  right  and  Athens  wrong.  Very  fre- 
quently the  multitude  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain  are  worshipping  a 
golden  calf,  while  the  prophet,  lonely  and  aloof  upon  the  summit,  is 
hearkening  to  the  very  voice  of  God. 

The  journalist  is  limited  by  the  necessity  of  catering  to  majorities; 
he  can  never  experience  the  felicity  of  Dr.  Stockman,  who  felt  himself 
the  strongest  man  on  earth  because  he  stood  most  alone.  It  may  some- 
times happen  that  the  majority  is  right ;  but  in  that  case  the  agreement 
of  the  journalist  is  an  unnecessary  utterance.  The  truth  was  known 
before  he  spoke,  and  his  speaking  is  superfluous.  What  is  popularly  said 
about  the  educative  force  of  journalism  is,  for  the  most  part,  baseless. 
Education  occurs  when  a  man  is  confronted  with  something  true  and 
beautiful  and  good  which  stimulates  to  active  life  that  ''bright  effluence 
of  bright  essence  increate'*  which  dwells  within  him.  The  real  ministers 
of  education  must  be,  in  Emerson's  phrase,  'lonely,  original,  and  pure." 
But  journalism  is  popular  instead  of  lonely,  timely  rather  than  original, 
and  expedient  instead  of  pure.  Even  at  its  best,  journalism  remains  an 
enterprise ;  but  literature  at  its  best  becomes  no  less  than  a  religion. 

These  considerations  are  of  service  in  studying  what  is  written  for  the 

THE  DRAMA  187 

theatre.  In  all  periods,  certain  contributions  to  the  drama  have  been 
journalistic  in  motive  and  intention,  while  certain  others  have  been 
literary.  There  is  a  good  deal  of  journalism  in  the  comedies  of  Aris- 
tophanes. He  often  chooses  topics  mainly  for  their  timeliness,  and  gathers 
and  says  what  happens  to  be  in  the  air.  Many  of  the  Elizabethan  dram- 
atists, like  Dekker  and  Heywood  and  Middleton  for  example,  looked  at 
life  with  the  journalistic  eye.  They  collected  and  disseminated  news. 
They  were,  in  their  own  time,  much  more  "up  to  date"  than  Shakespeare, 
who  chose  for  his  material  old  stories  that  nearly  every  one  had  read. 
Ben  Jonson's  Bartholomew  Fair  is  glorified  journalism.  It  brims  over 
with  contemporary  gossip  and  timely  'v^-itticisms.  Therefore  it  is  out  of 
date  to-day,  and  is  read  only  by  people  who  wish  to  find  out  certain  facts 
of  London  life  in  Jonson's  time.  Hamlet  in  1602  was  not  a  novelty;  but 
it  is  still  read  and  seen  by  people  who  wish  to  find  out  certain  truths  of 
life  in  general. 

At  the  present  day  a  very  large  proportion  of  the  contributions  to  the 
theatre  must  be  classed  and  judged  as  journalism.  Such  plays,  for  in- 
stance, as  The  Lion  and  the  Mouse  and  The  Man  of  the  Hour  are  nothing 
more  or  less  than  dramatized  newspapers.  A  piece  of  this  sort,  however 
effective  it  may  be  at  the  moment,  must  soon  suffer  the  fate  of  all  things 
timely  and  slip  behind  the  times.  Whenever  an  author  selects  a  subject 
because  he  thinks  the  public  wants  him  to  talk  about  it,  instead  of  be- 
cause he  knows  he  wants  to  talk  about  it  to  the  public,  his  motive  is 
journalistic  rather  than  literary.  A  timely  topic  may,  however,  be  used 
to  embody  a  truly  literary  intention.  In  The  Witching  Hour,  iov  ex- 
ample, journalism  was  lifted  into  literature  by  the  sincerity  of  Mr. 
Thomas's  conviction  that  he  had  something  real  and  significant  to  say. 
The  play  became  important  because  there  was  a  man  behind  it.  Indi- 
vidual personality  is  perhaps  the  most  dateless  of  all  phenomena.  The 
fact  of  any  great  individuality  once  accomplished  and  achieved  becomes 
contemporary  with  the  human  race  and  sloughs  off  the  usual  limits  of 
past  and  future. 

Whatever  Mr.  J.  M.  Barrie  writes  is  literature,  because  he  dwells 
islanded  amidst  the  world  in  a  wise  minority  of  one.     The  things  that 
he  says  are  of  importance  because  nobody  else  could  have 
"What  Every        ^^^  them.    He  has  achieved  individuality,  and  thereby 
Woman  passed  out  of  hearing  of  the  ticking  of  clocks  into  an 

Knows"  cver-ever  land  where  dates  are  not  and  consequently  epi- 

taphs can  never  be.    What  he  utters  is  of  interest  to  the 
public,  because  his  motive  for  speaking  is  private  and  personal.    Instead 

138  THE  FOKUM 

of  telling  people  what  they  think  that  they  are  thinking,  he  tells  them 
what  they  have  always  known  but  think  they  have  forgotten.  He  per- 
forms, for  this  oblivious  generation,  the  service  of  a  great  reminder.  He 
lures  us  from  the  strident  and  factitious  world  of  which  we  read  daily 
in  the  first  pages  of  the  newspapers,  back  to  the  serene  eternal  world  of 
little,  nameless,  unremembered  acts  of  kindness  and  of  love.  He  edu- 
cates the  many,  not  by  any  crass  endeavor  to  formulate  or  even  to  mould 
the  opinion  of  the  public,  but  by  setting  simply  before  them  thoughts 
which  do  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears. 

The  distinguishing  trait  of  Mr.  Barrie's  genius  is  that  he  looks  upon 
life  with  the  simplicity  of  a  child  and  sees  it  with  the  wisdom  of  a 
woman.  He  has  a  woman's  subtlety  of  insight,  a  child^s  concreteness  of 
imagination.  He  is  endowed  (to  reverse  a  famous  phrase  of  Matthew 
Arnold's)  with  a  sweet  imreasonableness.  He  understands  life  not  with 
his  intellect  but  with  his  sensibilities.  As  a  consequence,  he  is  familiar 
with  all  the  tremulous,  delicate  intimacies  of  human  nature  that  every 
woman  knows,  but  that  most  men  glimpse  only  in  moments  of  exalted 
sympathy  with  some  wise  woman  whom  they  love.  His  insight  has  that 
absoluteness  which  is  beyond  the  reach  of  intellect  alone.  He  knows  things 
for  the  unutterable  woman's  reason — ^^Ibecause  ..." 

But  with  this  feminine,  intuitive  understanding  of  humanity,  Mr. 
Barrie  combines  the  distinctively  masculine  trait  of  being  able  to  com- 
municate the  things  that  his  emotions  know.  The  greatest  poets  would, 
of  course,  be  women,  were  it  not  for  the  fact  that  women  are  in  general 
incapable  of  revealing  through  the  medium  of  articulate  art  the  very  things 
they  know  most  deeply.  Most  of  the  women  who  have  written  have  said 
only  the  lesser  phases  of  themselves;  they  have  unwittingly  withheld  their 
deepest  and  most  poignant  wisdom  because  of  a  native  reticence  of  speech. 
Many  a  time  they  reach  a  heaven  of  understanding  shut  to  men;  but 
when  they  come  back,  they  cannot  tell  the  world.  The  rare  artists  among 
women,  like  Sappho  and  Mrs.  Browning  and  Christina  Eossetti  and 
Laurence  Hope,  in  their  several  different  ways,  have  gotten  themselves 
expressed  only  through  a  sublime  and  glorious  unashamedness.  As  Haw- 
thorne once  remarked  very  wisely,  women  have  achieved  art  only  when 
they  have  stood  naked  in  the  market-place.  But  men  in  general  are  not 
withheld  by  a  similar  hesitance  from  saying  what  they  feel  most  deeply.  No 
woman  could  have  written  ]\f r.  Barrie's  biography  of  his  mother ;  but  for 
a  man  like  him  there  is  a  sort  of  sacredness  in  revealing  emotion  so  private 
as  to  be  expressible  only  in  the  purest  speech, 

Mr.  Barrie  was  apparently  bom  into  the  world  of  men  to  tell  us  what 
our  mothers  and  our  wives  would  have  told  us  if  they  could — ^what  in 

THE  DRAMA  139 

deep  moments  they  have  tried  to  tell  us,  trembling  exquisitely  upon  the 
verge  of  words.    The  theme  of  his  best  work  has  always  been  "what  every 
woman  knows.''    He  has  chosen  this  very  phrase  for  the  title  of  his  latest 
play,  the  subject  of  which  is  a  struggle  between  the  wisdom  of  a  woman  • 
and  the  unawareness  of  a  man. 

Maggie  Wylie  is  one  of  those  charming  women  who  think  they  have  no 
charm,  and  are  therefore  difficult  for  masculine  obtuseness  to  appreciate. 
She  lives  in  a  little,  out-of-the-way  nook  of  Scotland,  with  her  three 
elder  brothers,  who,  by  steady  shrewdness  and  simple-minded  persistency 
of  purpose,  have  amassed  a  comfortable  fortune  from  a  granite-quarry. 
The  brothers  regret  their  lack  of  education,  and  install  ten  yards  of  the 
world's  best  literature  in  their  living-room.  Instead  of  reading  the  books, 
however,  they  play  chess  in  the  evenings.  None  of  them  has  ever  loved; 
and  it  therefore  hurts  them  all  the  more  that  Maggie  is  not  sought  after. 
For  a  time  the  minister  seemed  to  look  upon  her  kindly;  but  he  has  lately 
married  some  one  else.  It  seems  to  be  Maggie's  fate  to  be  neglected,  be- 
cause, you  know,  she  has  no  charm.  The  brothers  try  to  keep  their 
feelings  to  themselves,  but  Maggie  finds  them  out.  She  finds  out  yet 
another  thing  that  they  are  trying  to  keep  from  her — ^namely,  that  on 
two  or  three  nights  of  late  a  burglar  has  been  seen  entering  the  window 
of  their  living-room  after  they  have  gone  to  bed.  This  night  they  all 
jsjt  up  to  trap  him.  When  they  slink  in  stealthily,  they  find  the  supposed 
burglar  poring  over  one  of  the  volumes  of  the  world's  best  literature,  sunk 
in  study.  He  proves  to  be  John  Shand,  who  takes  tickets  at  the  railway 
station  in  the  summer,  in  order  that  he  may  study  at  the  Glasgow 
University  in  the  winter.  He  has  no  money  to  buy  books  of  his  own,  and 
therefore  comes  to  borrow  culture  of  the  Wylies.  Shand  has  no  sense  of 
humor  whatsoever.  He  is  enormously  an  egoist ;  and  there  is  therefore — 
to  use  a  word  of  Maggie's — something  "glorious"  about  him.  He  is 
doggedly  determined  to  rise  in  the  world.  The  Wylie  brothers  are  taken 
^vith  his  strength  and  singleness  of  purpose,  and  they  hit  upon  a  canny 
and  a  shrewd  idea.  They  offer  to  lay  out  three  hundred  poimds  on  his 
education,  provided  that,  at  the  end  of  five  years,  when  his  education  shall 
have  been  completed,  Maggie  shall  have  the  privilege  of  marrying  him, 
provided  that  she  wishes  to.  Shand  at  first  rebels  at  what  he  considers  a 
one-sided  bargain ;  but  his  dominant  interest  in  his  own  career  soon  wins 
him  to  consent.  When  he  is  gone,  Maggie  picks  up  the  book  that  he  has 
left  lying  open  on  the  table,  and  takes  it  to  bed  with  her.  Her  brothers 
ask  her  why.  "Do  you  think,"  says  she,  "I  want  him  to  be  knowing  any- 
thing I  don't  know  myself?" 

The  five  years  pass,  the  education  is  accomplished,  and  Shand  comes 


140  THE  FORUM 

forward  to  stand  for  Parliament.  Maggie  waits  an  extra  year,  in  order 
not  to  hamper  him  at  the  outset  of  his  career;  and  during  that  extra  year 
she  grows  to  love  him.  His  election  afflicts  her  with  a  conflict  of  emotions. 
She  knows  he  does  not  love  her;  but  she  longs  to  mother  him  and  make 
him  great.  Yet  the  very  vastness  of  her  longing  makes  her  feel  herself 
unworthy  of  the  task  she  longs  for.  In  Shand's  presence  she  tears  up 
the  document  that  binds  him  to  her,  and  sets  him  free.  He  has  no  under- 
standing of  her,  but  feels  held  to  her  by  a  simple-minded  sense  of  right; 
and  before  all  his  cheering  constituenlB  he  announces  his  intention  to 
marr}'  her. 

Shand  enters  Parliament  handicapped  by  a  lack  of  all  the  gentle- 
manly graces,  but  aided  by  crude  directness  and  rugged  self-assertion. 
Maggie  helps  him  with  a  charming  instinctive  diplomacy  which  he  neither 
sees  nor  dreams  of.  Also,  she  ty^es  his  speeches  for  him,  and  during 
the  process  of  copying  them,  points  his  rather  labored  periods  with  pithy 
epigrams.  In  consequence,  Shand,  who  has  no  sense  of  humor,  soon  be- 
comes noted  as  a  wit.  Opportunity  opens  bright  before  him.  Then  he 
falls  in  love. 

Lady  Sybil  Lazenby  has  been  attracted  to  him  because  he  is  different 
from  other  men.  There  is  something  compelling  and  overwhelming  in 
what  she  calls  his  "vulgarity."  Shand  is  attracted  to  her  by  the  fact  that 
she  adores  him.  Maggie  discovers  her  husband  making  love  to  Lady 
Sybil.  Shand,  with  dogged  honesty,  tells  Maggie  that  since  he  has  never 
loved  her  and  has  now  found  the  lady  of  his  love,  he  must  in  truth  and 
justice  discard  Maggie  and  go  away  with  Lady  Sybil.  Maggie  takes  the 
chm  of  Lady  Sybil  in  her  hand,  and  looks  into  her  face.  "I'm  glad  that 
you  are  beautiful,"  she  says.  A  little  later  on  she  murmurs,  ''What  does 
it  matter  how  he  treats  me?    He's  just  my  little  boy." 

Maggie  does  not  weep  or  tear  her  hair.  Instead,  she  says  to  her 
brothers,  "Would  you  have  me  desert  him  now,  when  he  needs  me  most?" 
She  helps  her  husband  in  his  plans  for  leaving  her.  He  had  better  not 
go  till  Saturday,  she  advises,  because  "that's  the  day  the  laundry  comes 
home."  Maggie  is  very  shrewd  and  wise.  John  shall  accept  the  invitation 
of  the  Comtesse  de  la  Bri^re,  and  shall  spend  two  weeks  at  her  country- 
seat,  while  he  is  writing  the  great  speech  which  is  to  make  the  hit  of  his 
career.  Then  Maggie  telephones  the  countess  to  invite  Lady  Sybil  down 
for  the  entire  fortnight. 

Down  in  the  country,  Shand  fails  to  feel  the  inspiration  that  he  needs. 
Lady  Sybil  wearies  of  him,  and  he  finds  her  less  enchanting  than  before. 
His  speech  is  a  failure.  Maggie  comes  down  with  her  own  revision  of  the 
first  draft  of  his  address.    She  is  hoping  for  what  has  happened.    "As 

THE  DRAMA  141 

soon  as  I  look  into  his  eyes^  I  shall  know/'  she  tells  the  countess.  Lady 
Sybil  and  Shand  confess  the  bursting  of  their  iridescent  bubble  of  dream. 
Maggie  has  won  back  her  little  boy.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life^  she 
wheedles  him  into  laughter.    Later  she  will  lead  him  into  love. 

No  summary  of  this  play  could  possibly  suggest  its  exquisite,  un- 
utterable charm.  The  men  in  the  story  have  no  sense  of  humor ;  yet  every- 
thing they  say  is  funny.  Maggie  sees  the  humor  of  everything;  yet  in 
nearly  all  she  says,  there  is  a  tenderness  which  is  less  akin  to  laughter  than 
to  tears.  The  whole  drama  is  revealed  so  gently  that  an  audience  inured 
to  sound  and  fury  can  scarcely  realize  at  first  how  wise  it  is.  Yet  subtly 
and  surely  it  "gets  around"  the  audience;  for  nearly  every  line  of  it  is  a 
focal  point  of  light  whence  rays  irradiate  through  all  of  human  life. 

What  Every  Woman  Knows  is  the  one  authentic  piece  of  literature 
which  is  at  present  visible  in  the  theatres  of  New  York.  It  would  be 
futile  for  the  critic  to  dwell  in  detail  upon  its  many  merits.  It  is  a  great 
play,  for  the  simple  reason  that  Mr.  Barrie  is  a  great  man.  It  is  re- 
assuring to  those  who  believe  in  the  appreciation  of  the  public  that  it 
is  being  played  at  every  performance  to  the  full  capacity  of  the  theatre. 
The  surest  way  to  succeed  in  the  drama,  as  in  any  other  art,  is  to  have 
something  to  say. 

In  turning  our  attention  to  The  Battle,  we  are  descending  from  the 
level  of  dramatic .  literature  to  the  level  of  theatric  journalism.     The 
author,  Mr.  Cleveland  MofEett,  is  the  Sunday  editor  of 
the  New  York  Herald;  and  he  has  made  up  the  play 
g    *  „  with  the  same  sort  of  intelligence  and  skill  that  is  re- 

quired to  make  up  a  newspaper.  Popular  discussions 
concerning  the  relation  between  capital  and  labor  are  in 
the  air.  Parlor  socialists  with  no  scientific  knowledge  of  sociology  or 
economics  are  murmuring  anathemas  at  multi-millionaires;  the  many  are 
howling  hoarsely  at  the  few ;  and  the  monied  minority,  calling  themselves 
captains  of  industry,  are  talking  back  with  a  lack  of  logic  similarly 
shallow.  These  windy  reverberations  the  public  in  general  mistakes  for 
serious  thinking;  and  it  solemnly  reads  the  editorials  of  the  popular 
evening  papers  with  the  self-complacent  feeling  that  thereby  it  is  learn- 
ing something  about  what  it  calls  the  vital  problems  of  civilization. 
Journalism  succeeds  by  flattering  the  huge  vanity  of  the  popular  intellect. 
It  catches  a  day  laborer  and  talks  to  him  about  Standard  Oil  in  such  a 
way  as  to  make  him  think  that  he  has  economic  theories.  It  flatters 
sentimentalists  by  telling  them  that  they  know  something  about  sociology. 
In  order  to  carry  out  this  campaign  of  raising  the  minds  of  the  many 

]^42  '^^^^  FORtJM 

in  their  own  estimation^  it  necessarily  restricts  itself  to  the  utterance  of 
only  what  is  commonplace.  It  eschews  thought,  because  thought  is  un- 
popular^ and  would  bewilder  instead  of  flattering  the  average  brain. 

Mr.  MoflEett,  looking  for  a  timely  topic  out  of  which  to  make  a  play 
of  popular  appeal,  decided  with  shrewd  and  business-like  expediency  to 
set  forth  a  battle  between  the  ideas  of  a  capitalist  and  the  ideas  of  a 
socialist.  He  derived  the  necessary  concreteness  of  human  interest  by 
making  the  protagonists  father  and  son.  The  father,  John  J.  Haggleton, 
is  very  rich.  Early  in  his  career  his  wife  has  revolted  against  his 
malefactions  in  crushing  competitors,  and  has  left  him,  taking  away  with 
her  their  litfle  boy.  She  dies  poor;  and  the  son,  Phillip  Ames,  grows  up 
as  a  workman  and  develops  socialism.  The  father  gets  track  of  Phillip 
and  seeks  to  win  him  for  his  very  own.  In  order  to  do  this,  Haggleton 
goes  down  to  live  and  work  in  the  tenement  district,  and,  starting  without 
any  money  whatsoever,  endeavors  to  show  the  poor  that  they  could  all 
get  rich  if  they  would  exert  the  sort  of  business  instinct  with  which  he  is 
himself  endowed.  Haggleton  organizes  a  bakery  trust  and  wins  Phillip's 
admiration  by  cornering  the  market.  Three  acts  give  ample  opportunity 
for  the  usual  newspaper  sort  of  talk  about  the  problems  of  poverty  and 
wealth.  Every  character  in  the  cast  is  given  a  chance  to  emit  common- 
places, on  this  side  of  the  question  and  on  that.  By  talking  all  around 
his  topic,  Mr.  Moffett  manages  to  agree  sooner  or  later  with  everybody  in 
his  audience.  The  man  from  the  street  has  only  to  wait  long  enough  for 
his  particular  opportunity  to  say — ^^^Ah  I  that^s  just  what  I  think  I  What 
a  profound  and  serious  thinker  I  must  be  I'^  What  Mr.  Moffett  himself 
thinks  is,  for  the  most  part,  carefully  concealed  by  his  method  of  compro- 
mise; but  now  and  then  he  indicates  that  he  is  really  on  the  side  of  his 

At  any  rate,  the  millionaire's  case  is  presented  with  the  greater 
emphasis  of  rhetoric.  But  at  the  end  of  three  acts  of  discussion  Phillip 
still  remains  unconvinced.  Obviously  it  is  useless  to  argue  with  him  any 
longer;  so  Mr.  Moffett  shoots  him  instead.  The  shot  was  really  aimed  at 
Haggleton,  by  an  early  victim  of  his  business  methods;  but  Phillip  inter- 
posed and  took  the  bullet.  He  is  not  wounded  mortally;  and  his  long 
convalescence  in  Haggleton's  Fifth  Avenue  mansion  gives  the  father  and 
the  son  an  opportunity  to  discover  that  blood  is  thicker  than  newspaper 
editorials,  and  to  renounce  their  battle  of  theories  for  the  peace  of  parental 
and  filial  love. 

The  Battle  is  replete  with  lines  that  make  the  auditors  think  that  they 
are  thinking.  Therefore,  of  course,  it  is  exceedingly  popular,  in  spite  of 
the  fact  that  it  is  crudely  constructed,  and  blurs,  rather  than  defines,  the 

THE  DRAMA  143 

issues  it  advances  for  consideration.  It  would,  of  course,  be  unfair  to 
complain  of  an  orange  that  it  is  not  a  grape-fruit.  It  is  really  nothing 
against  I'he  Battle  that  it  lacks  the  high  sincerity  of  literature.  The 
author  talked  to  the  public  about  a  timely  topic  because  it  wanted  him 
to,  and  he  told  the  public  what  it  wanted  him  to  say.  The  Battle  is  fully 
as  important  as  the  daUy  newspapers,  and  is  rather  more  interesting  as 
an  indication  of  the  tenuity  of  transitory  thought. 

One  drawback  of  journalism  is  that  it  is  always  in  danger  of  the 
yellow  peril.    Mr.  Moffett's  play  was  good  of  its  kind;  but  An  Inter- 
national  Marriage,   by   Mr.   George  Broadhurst,  was 
»/^  tinted  with  a  lemon  tinge.    Mr.  Broadhurst,  by  studying 

International  the  daily  press,  discovered  that  the  public  enjoys  gossip 
Marriage"  about  love  affairs  between  American  heiresses  and  for- 

eign dukes.  The  play  which  he  developed  from  this 
timely  theme  was  amazing  in  naive  vulgarity.  It  was  artificial,  shallow, 
tedioucf,  and  offensive  to  the  taste.  It  was  interesting  only  as  the  exhi- 
bition of  a  tendency,  and  may  charitably  be  forgotten,  like  the  journals  of 

By  those  who  remain  ever  on  the  outlook  for  new  playwrights  of  gen- 
uine promise.  Miss  Marion  Fairfax,  who  in  private  life  is  Mrs.  Tully 
Marshall,  will  be  remembered  as  the  author  of  a  play  of 
serious  import  and  sincere  craftsmanship,  entitled  The 
^.   *        n  Builders,  which  was  produced  for  a  limited  number  of 

performances  a  couple  of  seasons  ago.    This  play  had  the 
ring  of  reality  and  the  merit  of  earnestness,  and  deserved 
.  a  longer  run  than  was  accorded  it. 

The  Chaperon,  by  the  same  author,  which  has  lately  been  disclosed, 
is  a  work  of  less  importance,  conceived  and  written  in  a  lighter  vein;  but 
it  reveals  the  same  merits  of  sincerity  of  purpose  and  competence  of 
craftsmanship.  It  tells  with  neatness  an  agreeable  story  of  youthful 
holidaying.  The  scene  is  in  the  Adirondacks.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Coombs, 
who  are  entertaining  a  house-party  of  girls,  are  called  suddenly  to  the 
city,  and  request  the  young  Countess  Van  Tuyle  to  take  charge  of  the 
girls  while  they  are  gone.  The  countess,  who  has  married  in  haste,  is  now 
securing  a  divorce  at  leisure.  Who  should  wander  in  but  Jim  Ogden, 
whom  she  loved  before  she  ever  met  the  count,  and  who  loves  her  still. 
They  go  canoeing  in  the  moonlight,  and  their  fragile  craft  is  wrecked 
upon  a  rock.  They  are  marooned  all  night  upon  a  barren  island,  where 
they  are  discovered  the  next  morning  by  the  Count,  who  threatens  to  dis- 

144  ^™®  FORUM 

seminate  a  scandal,  but  is  pleasantly  and  properly  thrashed  by  Jim.  The 
chaperon  finally  gets  back  to  her  charges^  to  find  that  they  are  all  engaged 
to  eligible  young  men,  that  the  servants  have  left,  and  that  the  whole 
house  is  topsy-turvy.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Coombs  return  upon  a  scene  of  gen- 
eral embarrassment;  but  everybody  marries  everybody  else,  and  nobody 
cares  about  the  many  contretemps  which  have  been  laughed  through. 

Both  the  building  and  the  writing  of  this  delicate  and  fragile  play  are 
simple  and  clear;  the  character  types  are  neatly  sketched;  and  the  piece 
is  pervaded  by  an  atmosphere  of  jocund  youth  which  is  both  charming 
and  refreshing.    The  Chaperon  is  a  tiny  task  done  well. 

Mr.  Edward  Childs  Carpenter  is  a  Philadelphia  newspaper  man;  but 
there  is  no  suggestion  of  journalism  in  his  play.  The  Barber  of  New 
Orleans.  Bather  he  seeks  escape  from  timely  actualities 
"The  Barber  ^J  telling  himself  and  us  an  elaborate  tale  of  pleasant 
of  impossibilities.    The  piece  is  set  in  ''the  little  Paris  in 

New  Orleans"  the  wilderness,"  shortly  after  the  purchase  of  Louisiana 
by  the  United  States.  The  hero  is  no  ordinary  barber, 
lie  is  also  a  fencing-master,  a  dancing-teacher,  a  poet  and  a  playwright, 
a  gentleman  and  a  wit,  the  son  of  a  soldier,  and  a  knightly  servitor 
of  damsels  in  distress.  He  exposes  and  crushes  a  conspiracy  against  the 
Government,  wins  a  fortune  in  a  lottery,  spends  it  all  to  save  the  girl  he 
loves,  bravely  faces  single-handed  a  howling  mob  of  enemies,  forces  a 
confession  of  truth  from  a  traducer  by  holding  him  imprisoned  in  a 
barber's  chair  and  threatening  to  cut  his  throat,  and  wins  the  love  of  the 
heroine  at  last,  though  she  has  turned  out  to  be  no  less  than  a  princess 
of  France. 

Mr.  Carpenter's  play  is  romantically  true  at  many  incidental  mo- 
ments, but  artificial  and  false  at  the  crises  of  the  action.  There  is  an 
agreeable  diversity  in  the  movement  of  the  story;  but  the  plot  is  so 
intricate  that  at  times  the  mechanism  creaks  and  dispels  all  illusion  of 
life.  The  play  would  have  been  better  if  the  author  had  not  seen  and 
read  and  remembered  too  many  other  pieces  of  the  same  general  sort 
It  is  a  story  about  stories,  rather  than  a  story  about  life.  But  it  is  very 
prettily  written,  and  is  aglow  at  many  moments  with  the  charm  of  make- 

The  Vampire,  by  Mr.  Edgar  Allan  Woolf  and  Mr.  George  Sylvester 
Yiereck,  is  a  supernatural  extravaganza.  The  central  figure  in  the  story, 
Paul  Hartleigh  by  name,  has  achieved  renown  as  a  poet.  He  is  endowed 
with  a  genius  for  expression,  but  is  deficient  in  original  ideas.  He  secures 
material  for  his  poems  by  appropriating  the  ideas  of  others.    He  gathers 

THE  DRAMA  145 

about  him  a  number  of  young  artists  whose  brains  are  thrilling  with 

incomplete  imaginings,  and  by  an  occult  power  of  absorption  robs  them 

of  their  thoughts.    This  he  achieves  through  laying  his 

hand  upon  their  heads  while  they  are  sleeping.     The 

**^^*  .    n  fable  further  presupposes  that  the  minds  thus  pilfered 

a»Pir«  from  are  left  empty  by  the  process,  and  are  reduced  after 

a  sufficient  time  to  the  blank  exhaustion  of  idiocy.   A 

young  sculptor,  named  Gleorge  Townsend,  escapes  from  the  vampire  just 

as  he  has  been  drained  to  a  state  of  nervous  hysteria.  A  promising  young 

novelist,  named  Caryl  Fielding,  is  less  fortunate,  and  avoids  the  doom  of 

madness  only  by  the  intercession  of  a  girl  with  whom  he  is  in  love,  and 

who  is  strong  to  save  him  because  she  is  also  loved  by  Hartleigh. 

There  is  nothing  in  this  phantasmagoria  to  warrant  serious  considera- 
tion. The  sole  legitimate  reason  for  employing  the  supernatural  in  fiction 
is  that  thereby  it  is  occasionally  possible  to  embody  more  completely  and 
express  more  emphatically  some  sure  reality  of  life  than  by  any  other 
means.  For  instance,  when  Stevenson  subverts  the  actual  in  Dr.  JeTcyll 
and  Mr.  Hyde,  he  does  so  for  the  purpose  of  presenting  an  eternal  law  of 
human  nature.  His  fable,  though  contrary  to  fact,  is  deeply  true.  Now 
it  is,  of  course,  true  that  some  people  of  peculiarly  receptive  sensibilities 
have  a  genius  for  absorbing  the  ideas,  expressed  and  unexpressed,  of  people 
of  active  minds  with  whom  they  come  in  contact ;  but  the  thesis  that  an 
idea  conveyed  in  any  way  from  one  mind  to  another  ceases  to  exist  in  the 
mind  that  held  it  first  not  only  has  no  f oimdation  in  fact  but  does  not  even 
present  to  the  imagination  a  suggestion  of  psychologic  truth.  Instead 
of  being  an  imaginative  translation  of  natural  law  into  supernatural 
terms,  tins  play  is  merely  clap-trap. 

Considered  solely  as  a  bit  of  mechanism  contrived  to  produce  a  nervous 
thrill,  the  piece  is  ineffective  except  at  rare  and  scattered  moments.  It 
is  deficient  in  action,  and  is  overburdened  with  talk.  The  authors  show  a 
lack  of  sureness  in  conceiving  character,  and  throughout  the  play  the 
motives  of  the  leading  actors  remain  obscure.  The  introduction  of  a 
preposterous  travesty  of  Whistler  at  the  first  curtain-fall  is  unpardonable. 
The  piece  is  written  with  that  elaborateness  of  language  which  is  cus- 
tomary with  young  authors  before  they  calm  down  into  style.  Much  of 
the  talk  is  oppressively  aesthetic.  Great  names  are  juggled  with  and 
rehearsed  in  catalogue.  ''Homer,  Shakespeare,  Balzac,*'  some  character 
begins;  and  the  auditor  is  fain  to  add,  "Albany,  Schenectady,  TTtica,  Syra- 
cuse." A  sense  of  humor  on  the  part  of  either  of  the  authors  would 
have  improved  the  play  in  more  ways  than  one. 

Clayton  Hamilton. 


BY  J.   C.  SNAITH 



Miss  Araminta  Perry,  Hill  Street,  London,  W,,  to  Miss  Elizabeth  Perry, 
the  Parsonage^  Slocum  Magna,  North  Devon. 

Dearest  Mupfin:  London  is  a  much  larger  place  than  Slocmn 
Magna^  but  I  don't  think  it  is  nearly  so  nice.  I  think,  if  I  had  not  got 
Tobias  with  me,  sometimes  I  might  be  very  miserable. 

First  I  must  tell  you  about  my  new  frock.  It  is  a  lilac  one,  and  has 
been  copied  from  a  famous  picture  of  Great-grandmamma  Dorset,  by  a 
painter  named  Gainsborough — ^I  mean  that  Gainsborough  copied  Great- 
grandmamma  Dorset,  not  that  he  made  my  frock.  Madame  Pelissier  made 
my  frock.  It  is  not  quite  so  nice  as  your  mauve  was,  but  it  is  mtich  ad- 
mired by  nearly  everybody  in  London.  When  I  walk  out  in  it  people  of- 
ten turn  round  to  look  at  it. 

I  think  the  people  here  are  sometimes  rather  rude,  but  Lord  Andover 
says  I  am  not  to  mind,  as  people  are  like  that  in  London.  Lord  An- 
dover is  a  sweet.  Aunt  Caroline  says  he  is  much  older  than  he  looks,  but 
Miss  Burden  doesn't  think  so.  Aunt  Caroline  must  be  right  because  she 
is  always  right  in  ever3rthing,  but  Miss  Burden  is  just  a  sweet.  She 
comes  to  my  room  every  night  to  see  if  I  am  miserable.  She  is  very  good 
to  Tobias.  Aunt  Caroline  says  she  is  too  romantic.  She  had  a  love  affair 
when  she  was  younger.  Lord  Andover  says  I  must  be  careful  that  I 
don't  have  one,  as  they  are  so  bad  for  the  complexion.  He  says  he  knows 
as  a  fact  that  all  the  men  in  London  are  untrustworthy.  He  says  oldish 
men,  particularly  if  they  have  been  married,  are  very  dangerous.  As 
dearest  papa  is  not  here  to  advise  me.  Lord  Andover  acts  as  he  thinks 
dearest  papa  would  like  him  to.  He  goes  out  with  me  everywhere  to  see 
that  I  come  to  no  harm.    Isn^t  it  dear  of  him  ? 

Yesterday  Lord  Andover  took  me  to  the  Zoological  Gardens  to  see  the 
elephants.  It  was  Aunt  Caroline's  suggestion.  She  thought  we  should 
find  so  many  things  in  common.  I  think  we  did ;  at  least  I  know  we  had 
one  thing  in  common.  We  are  both  very  fond  of  cream  buns.  I  had 
four,  and  one  of  the  elephants  had  five.  But  Lord  Andover  says  the 
elephants  are  so  big  you  can't  call  them  greedy.  We  also  saw  the  bears. 
^OopyrigTU,  1908,  hy  Mofat,  Tcerd  and^\Company,     . 


They  each  had  a  cream  bun  apiece.  Lord  Andover  said  each  of  them 
would  have  eaten  another^  but  he  thought  it  hardly  right  to  encourage 

Lord  Andover  is  a  very  high  principled  man.  He  says  I  am  to  be 
very  careful  of  a  perfectly  charming  old  gentleman  who  calls  most  days 
to  see  Aunt  Caroline.  I  call  him  6obo  because  he  gobbles  like  a  turkey, 
and  he  calls  me  Goose  because  I  am  rather  a  Silly.  He  is  a  Duke  really. 
Lord  Andover  doesn't  seem  to  trust  him.  He  says  it  is  because  of  his  past 
life.  I  heard  Lord  Andover  tell  Aunt  Caroline  that  she  ought  not  to 
encourage  the  old  reprobate  with  me  in  the  house.  It  is  rather  dreadful 
that  he  should  be  like  that  because  he  is  such  a  dear,  although  his  face  is 
so  red  and  he  gobbles  like  anything.  He — Gobo — ^is  going  to  give  me  a 
riding  horse  so  that  I  can  ride  in  Botten  Bow,  as  it  is  so  good  for  the 
health.  He  rides  in  Botten  Bow  every  morning.  He  says  my  horse  will 
be  quite  as  nice  as  Squire  Lascelles'  pedigree  hunter  was.  I  don't  think 
Lord  Andover  approves  of  it.  He  seems  to  doubt  whether  dearest  papa 
would  like  me  to  be  seen  much  in  public  with  a  man  who  has  no  prin- 

I  have  spoken  to  Miss  Burden  about  it.  But  she  agrees  with  Lord 
Andover  in  everything,  because  she  considers  he  is  the  only  perfect  man 
she  has  ever  met.  Miss  Burden  says  his  ideals  are  so  lofty.  Aunt  Caro- 
line doesn't  think  so  much  of  Lord  Andover.  She  says  that  all  men  and 
most  women  are  vain,  selfish,  worldly  and  self-seeking.  I  wish  Aunt  Caro- 
line could  meet  dearest  papa.  And  you  too.  Muffin  dearest.  But  I  do 
think  Aunt  Caroline  is  mistaken  about  Lord  Andover.  I  know  that  he 
pays  great  attention  to  his  appearance,  but  I  am  perfectly  sure  he  is  a 
sweet.  If  he  were  not  why  should  he  take  so  much  trouble  over  my  lilac 
frock  and  my  new  hat,  which  I  don't  think  I  like  because  it  makes  people 
stare  so;  and  why  should  he  be  so  careful  that  I  should  come  to  no  harm, 
and  always  try  to  act  just  as  he  thinks  dearest  papa  would  like  him  to? 
I  am  sure  Aunt  Caroline  must  be  mistaken.  It  must  be  because  people  in 
London  are  always  cynical.  At  least  that  is  what  Lord  Andover  says. 
He  says  there  is  something  in  the  atmosphere  of  London  that  turns  the 
milk  of  human  kindness  sour.  Isn't  it  dreadful  ?  I  am  so  glad  we  haven't 
that  kind  of  atmosphere  at  Slocum  Magna,  Muffin  dearest. 

Lord  Andover  is  marvellously  clever.  Some  of  the  words  he  uses  are 
longer  than  dearest  papa's.  He  says  I  am  a  throwback.  He  won't  tell  me 
what  it  means.  He  says  it  is  a  dictionary  word,  yet  I  can't  find  it  in  Aunt 
Caroline's  dictionary.  Aunt  Caroline  says  I  am  too  inquisifive.  Please 
ask  dearest  papa.    He  will  certainly  know. 

Lord  Andover  is  very  good  at  poetry.    He  says  it  is  because  he  went  to 


^^g  THE  FORUM 

the  same  school  as  Lord  Byron.    He  has  written  what  he  calls  an  Ode  to  a 
Lilac  Frock.    It  b^ins  like  this: 

Youth  is  80  fair  that  the  Morning's  smile. 
Is  touched  with  the  glamor  of  a  ghid  delist. 

I  cannot  remember  any  more^  and  Aunt  Caroline  bnmt  the  copy  he  gave 
me>  herself  personally.  She  said  he  was  old  enough  to  know  better.  But 
I  think  it  is  awfully  clever  of  him,  donH  yon,  MnfBn  dearest?  Miss  Bur- 
den was  very  miserable  about  the  ode — ^I  mean  of  course  about  Aunt 
Caroline  burning  it.  She  scorched  her  fingers  in  trying  to  rescue  it  from 
the  flames.  She  has  a  new  lilac  frock,  because  Lord  Andover  admires 
lilac  frocks  so  much.  She  looks  a  sweet  in  it,  although  Aunt  Caroline 
says  she  looks  a  perfect  fright.  Aunt  Caroline  always  says  what  she 
means,  but  I  don't  think  she  always  means  what  she  says.  She  said  some 
perfectly  wicked  things  about  Tobias  when  the  poor  darling  escaped  from 
his  basket  and  hid  behind  the  drawing-room  curtains.  But  I  think  that 
was  because  Ponto  was  frightened.  Ponto  is  a  little  horror.  I  think  I 
shall  persuade  Tobias  to  bite  him. 

Aunt  Caroline  says  if  I  behave  well  I  am  to  go  to  Buckingham  Palace 
to  see  the  queen.  If  I  do  go  I  am  to  have  another  new  frock,  although  I 
am  sure  I  shall  never  get  one  half  so  nice  as  my  lilac  is.  I  do  wish  I  could 
go  in  that.  I  am  sure  the  queen  would  like  it;  but  when  I  told  Aunt 
Caroline  she  told  me  to  hold  my  tongue.  The  frock  I  am  going  to  see 
the  queen  in  is  all  white,  which  Lord  Andover  says  is  his  favorite  color, 
because  it  is  the  emblem  of  virginal  purity. 

I  have  not  had  a  single  game  of  hockey  since  I  came  to  London.  Lord 
Andover  says  they  only  play  hockey  in  London  when  the  Thames  is  frozen 
over,  which  happens  only  once  in  a  blue  moon.  I  do  call  that  silly,  don^t 
you,  Muffin  dearest,  when  we  have  a  mixed  match  at  Slocum  Magna  every 
Wednesday  all  through  the  winter? 

Last  night  I  went  to  a  party  in  my  new  evening  frock.  Everybody 
liked  it,  at  least  they  said  they  did.  One  or  two  young  men  told  me  they 
admired  it  immensely.  Wasn't  it  dear  of  them?  Lord  A.  and  Oobo  were 
there.  They  didn't  think  it  was  cut  a  bit  too  low.  I  am  so  pleased.  I 
wish.  Muffin  dearest,  that  you  and  Polly  and  Milly  had  one  like  it,  because 
I  am  sure  it  must  be  awfully  expensive.  And  what  do  you  think?  Aunt 
Caroline  has  given  me  a  string  of  pearls  to  wear  with  it  which  once  be- 
longed to  Great-grandmamma  Dorset.  I  do  call  that  British,  don't  you? 
They  are  supposed  to  be  very  valuable.  Lord  A.  and  Qobo  both  thought 
the  party  was  a  great  success.  Aunt  Caroline  went  to  sleep  most  of  tiie 


A  fortnight  next  Wednesday  Aunt  Caroline  is  going  to  give  a  dance 
because  of  me.  It  was  Lord  Andover  who  persuaded  her,  and  he  is  ar- 
ranging everything.  Aunt  Caroline  and  he  cannot  agree  about  the 
champagne  for  supper.  Aunt  Caroline  says  that  claret  cup  was  consid- 
ered good  enough  when  she  came  out.  Lord  Andover  says  that  civiliza- 
tion has  advanced  since  those  days.  I  thought  it  sounded  unkind  to  Aunt 
Caroline,  but  Miss  Burden  says  Lord  Andover  can't  help  putting  things 

Then  too.  Muffin  dearest,  I  must  tell  you  that  Aunt  Caroline  and 
Lord  Andover  have  almost  quarrelled  over  Gobo.  Lord  A.  insists  upon 
not  inviting  the  harmless,  old  dear.  He  says  if  he  comes  to  the  ball  he 
will  abuse  the  wine,  yet  drink  more  of  it  than  is  good  for  him,  and  that 
he  will  play  bridge  all  the  evening  and  be  a  nuisance  to  everybody.  Lord 
Andover  says  he  always  vitiates  an  atmosphere  of  virginal  purity  by  say- 
ing and  doing  things  that  he  oughtn't.  I  suppose  Lord  Andover  will  have 
to  have  his  way,  because  he  is  acting  as  a  sort  of  deputy  to  dearest  papa. 
He  has  already  kissed  me  several  times  ^^atemally,*^  which  is  really  aw- 
fully sweet  of  him;  and  every  day  he  warns  me  to  beware  of  Gobo  and  to 
be  very  careful  that  he  does  not  go  too  far. 

This  is  all  this  time,  MufiBn  dearest.  I  send  heaps  and  heaps  of  love 
and  kisses  to  you  and  Polly  and  Milly  and  Dickie  and  Charley  and  poor 
blind  Doggo;  and  to  dearest  papa  I  send  twelve  extra  special  kisses. 

I  remain  always 

Your  most  affectionate  sister, 
P.S.    Tobias  sends  his  fondest  love. 

This  letter  may  enable  the  judicious  to  discern  that,  although  the  con- 
quest of  London  by  the  lilac  frock  and  the  daffodil-colored  mane  pro- 
ceeded apace,  all  was  not  harmony  in  Hill  Street,  W.  To  Andover^s 
masterly  stage  management  there  can  be  no  doubt  much  of  the  triumph 
was  due,  but  he  unfortunately  was  the  last  man  in  the  world  to  under- 
rate his  own  achievement.  "Andover  can't  carry  com,'^  was  the  trite  but 
obviously  just  manner  in  which  George  Betterton  summed  up  the  situa- 

No  two  persons  knew  Caroline  Crewkeme  quite  so  well  as  these  old 
cronies.  And  no  one  save  Caroline  Crewkeme  knew  them  quite  so  well 
as  they  knew  each  other.  It  required  a  very  experienced  hand  to  hold  the 
balance  even  between  them.  Let  it  be  said  at  once  that  one  was  forth- 
coming in  that  very  worldly  wise  old  woman. 

This  was  quite  as  it  should  be.    For  it  was  wonderful  .how  soon  it 

150  ^™^  FORUM 

was  bruited  about  in  the  parish  that  two  Eichmonds  had  already  entered 
the  field.  Both  were  eligible^  mature  and  distinguished  men^  and  both 
were  more  popular  than  in  Caroline's  opinion  they  ought  to  have  been. 
As  she  said  in  her  sarcastic  manner^  she  knew  them  both  too  well  to  have 
any  illusions  about  them.    ^Ties  hommes  moyens  sensuels/'  said  she. 

Not  of  course  that  Caroline's  opinion  prevented  their  entrances  and 
exits  in  Hill  Street  at  all  hours  of  the  day  and  of  the  evening  being  a 
subject  of  comment  in  the  parish.  There  were  those,  however,  who  were 
favourably  placed  to  watch  the  comedy — or  ought  we  to  call  it  farce  now 
that  criticism  has  grown  so  sensitive  upon  the  point? — ^who  were  by  no 
means  enamored  of  the  spectacle.    The  fair  protagonist  was  so  authentic. 

However,  the  gods  were  looking,  as  they  are  sometimes.  And  the  man- 
ner in  which  they  contrived  to  mask  their  attention  was  really  rather 
quaint.    They  inserted  a  bee  in  Andover's  cool  and  sagacious  bonnet. 

'TMy  dear  Caroline,"  said  he  one  morning  when  he  paid  a  call,  *'do 
you  know  I  have  taken  a  fancy  to  have  a  copy  of  Grandmother  Dorset  to 
stick  in  the  little  gallery  in  Grosvenor  Square  ?" 

"Humph,"  said  Caroline  ungraciously. 

'TDon't  say  Tiumph,'  my  dear  Caroline,"  said  Andover  melodiously, 
"it  makes  you  look  so  plain." 

"I  have  never  allowed  that  picture  to  leave  my  drawing-room,"  said 
she,  "for  public  exhibition  or  on  any  other  pretext,  and  I  don't  see  why 
I  should  do  so  at  this  time  of  day." 

'There  is  no  need  for  it  to  leave  your  drawing-room,"  said  Andover 
persuasively.  "A  man  can  come  here  to  copy  it,  if  you  will  grant  him 
the  use  of  the  place  of  a  morning." 

^T.  don't  see  why,"  said  Caroline,  "my  drawing-room  should  be  turned 
into  a  painter's  studio." 

"It  is  quite  a  simple  matter,"  Andover  explained.  "A  curtain  can 
be  rigged  up  and  drawn  across  the  canvas  and  you  won't  know  it's  there." 

Caroline  yielded  with  reluctance. 

"There  is  a  young  fellow  of  the  name  of  Lascelles,"  said  Andover, 
"whom  I  believe  to  be  quite  competent  to  make  a  respectable  copy." 

"A  Eoyal  Academician?"  said  Caroline. 

"God  bless  me,  no !"  said  Andover.  'The  young  fellow  is  only  a  be- 

"I  fail  to  see  why  I  should  grant  the  use  of  my  drawing-room,"  said 
Caroline,  "to  a  person  who  is  not  a  member  of  the  Eoyal  Academy.  And 
what  an  inferior  copy  by  some  wretched  dauber  will  profit  you  I  cannot 

'The  fact  is,"  said  Andover  with  the  air  of  one  imparting  a  state 


secret,  "I  am  going  Gainsborough  mad.  So  badly  do  I  want  Grandmother 
Dorset  for  Andover  House,  that  if  I  ean^t  have  her  herself  at  present,  I 
intend  to  have  something  as  near  to  her  as  I  can  get.  And  in  my  opinion 
this  young  fellow  Lascelles  is  the  very  man  to  make  a  faithful  copy  of  the 
peerless  original.  He  has  had  the  best  possible  training  for  color,  and 
like  myself  he  is  a  Gainsborough  enthusiast.*' 

Without  further  preface  James  Lascelles  found  his  way  to  Hill 
Street  one  fine  spring  morning.  He  was  armed  with  the  tools  of  his 
trade  and  with  a  great  piece  of  canvas  some  eighty-four  inches  by  fifty. 

Jim  Lascelles  was  a  cheery,  healthy  young  fellow  about  six  feet  two, 
and  undoubtedly  a  strikingly  handsome  specimen  of  the  English  nation. 
How  a  man  of  Andover's  cool  penetration,  who  rejoiced  in  such  a  soimd 
working  knowledge  of  things  as  they  are  should  have  fallen  so  easily  and 
so  blindly  into  the  trap  that  had  been  laid  for  him  is  one  of  those  mat- 
ters upon  which  only  the  most  inconclusive  speculations  can  avail  us. 
Doubtless  he  thought  that  a  young  fellow  so  obscure  as  Jim,  who  was  as 
poor  as  a  mouse  and  in  no  way  immodest  in  his  ideas,  could  be  trusted 
implicitly  with  such  a  trifling  commission.  And  doubtless  he  could  have 
been,  had  those  persons  upstairs  played  the  game.  But  of  course  they 
don't  always;  and  a  man  as  wise  as  Andover  ought  to  have  known  it. 

All  that  Andover  condescended  to  know  on  this  important  and  wide- 
reaching  subject  was  that  Jim  Lascelles  'Tiadn't  a  bob  in  the  world,'' 
and  that  he  was  good  to  his  mother.  He  was  not  even  aware  that  the 
mother  of  Jim,  by  some  obscure  mode  of  reasoning  peculiar  to  her  kind, 
felt  that  Jim  was  bound  to  turn  out  a  great  genius.  Nor  was  he  aware 
that  on  that  naif  pretext  she  had  pinched  and  scraped  in  the  most  heroic 
manner  to  spare  enough  from  her  modest  pittance  to  give  Jim  three  years' 
training  in  Paris  in  the  studio  of  the  world-renowned  Monsieur  Gillet. 
Indeed,  there  is  no  reason  to  believe  that  Lord  Andover  had  any  special 
faith  in  Jim  or  in  his  genius.  He  merely  believed  that  he  could  entrust 
a  little  commission  with  perfect  safety  and  with  profit  to  both  parties  to 
a  modest,  sound-hearted,  pleasantly  mediocre  young  fellow. 

Now  at  the  hour  Jim  Lascelles  made  his  first  appearance  in  Hill 
Street,  that  is  just  about  what  he  was.  Sometimes,  it  is  true,  he  would 
have  occasional  dreams  of  coming  greatness.  But  he  never  mentioned 
them  to  anybody,  because  in  his  own  mind  he  was  convinced  that  they 
were  due  to  having  supped  later  than  usual.  He  troubled  very  little 
about  the  future.  He  worked  on  steadily,  striving  to  pay  his  way;  and  if 
he  never  expected  to  see  his  ''stuff"  on  the  line  in  the  long  room  at  Bur- 
lington House,  he  did  hope  sometime  to  sell  it  a  little  more  easily  and 
to  get  better  prices  for  it  from  the  dealers. 

152  "^E  FORUM 

If  he  could  go  once  in  three  years  to  Kennington  Oval  to  sec  Surrey 
play  the  Australians,  or  could  afford  a  couple  of  tickets  occasionally 
for  the  Chelsea  Arts  Club  Fancy  Ball  at  Covent  Garden,  or  his  funds 
were  sufScient  for  him  to  take  his  mother  to  the  dress  circle  of  a  suburban 
theatre  to  see  a  play  that  ended  pleasantly,  and  he  was  always  able  to 
buy  as  much  tobacco  as  he  wanted,  he  didn^t  mind  very  much  that  he 
worked  very  hard  to  earn  very  little.  He  argued  quite  correctly  that 
many  chaps  were  worse  off  than  Jim  Lascelles.  He  had  splendid  health 
and  he  had  a  splendid  mother. 

No  sooner  had  Mr.  Collins  received  Jim  Lascelles  on  this  memorable 
forenoon,  and  the  mighty  canvas  that  accompanied  him,  which  was  in 
the  care  of  two  stalwart  sons  of  labor,  than  the  fun  really  began.  In  the 
first  place  it  was  only  with  infinite  contrivance  that  it  was  got  through 
the  bine  drawing-room  door,  which  fortunately  for  Jim,  and  dare  we  say 
for  Andover?  was  part  and  parcel  of  a  spacious  and  lofty  Georgian 
interior.  All  the  same,  some  sacrifice  of  white  paint  was  involved 
in  the  process,  which  was  deemed  a  sacrilege  by  our  old  friend  Mr. 

However,  our  old  friend  Mr.  Collins  did  not  overawe  Jim  Lascelles  as 
much  as  he  had  a  right  to  expect  to,  because  Jim  had  been  bom  and 
brought  up  at  the  Red  House  at  Widdiford,  and  he  went  to  quite  a  good 
school  before  the  crash  came. 

"A  shocking  bad  light,'*  said  Jim,  surveying  the  aristocratic  gloom  of 
the  blue  drawing-room  as  though  it  belonged  to  him.  'better  stick  it 

With  considerable  hauteur  Mr.  Collins  superintended  the  rearing  of 
the  unwieldy  canvas  in  the  place  Jim  had  indicated.  It  involved  the  mov- 
ing of  the  sofa  six  yards  to  the  left.  To  do  this,  in  the  opinion  of  Mr.  Col- 
lins, almost  required  a  special  act  of  parliament.  He  felt  obliged  to  get 
the  authority  of  Mr.  Marchbanks  before  it  was  moved  an  inch.  Jim, 
however,  being  an  autocrat  with  very  modem  ideas,  cheerfully  removed 
the  sofa  himself  in  Mr.  CoUins's  absence.  When  that  astonished  gentle- 
man returned  the  two  stalwart  sons  of  labor  were  performing  their  final 
duties.  Mr.  Collins  admonished  them  sternly  to  be  careful  where  they 
put  their  feet  while  they  fixed  up  the  canvas. 

Jim  Lascelles  was  not  given  to  unbridled  enthusiasms,  but  the  dis- 
covery of  Araminta,  Duchess  of  Dorset,  by  Gainsborough  seemed  greatly 
to  disturb  him. 

'TTe  gods !"  said  Jim,  **it  is  a  crime  to  keep  the  heritage  of  the  nation 
in  a  light  like  this/'  Jim  turned  to  Mr.  Collins.  'T[  say,"  said  he,  "can't 
you  draw  those  blinds  up  higher?" 


"No,  sir/'  said  Mr.  Collins  superciliously,  "not  without  her  ladyship's 

"Where  is  her  ladyship  ?"  said  Jim.    "Can  I  see  her  ?" 

"Her  ladyship  is  not  at  home,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Collins. 

"Well,"  said  Jim  briefly  but  pleasantly,  "those  blinds  will  certainly 
have  to  go  up  higher." 

And  Jim  Lascelles,  doubtless  to  prove  to  Mr.  Collins  that  he  was  in 
the  habit  of  respecting  his  own  opinion,  walked  up  to  the  window,  un- 
loosened the  cords  and  hauled  up  the  Venetian  blinds  to  their  uttermost. 
Various  additional  beams  of  the  May  sunshine  rewarded  him. 

"Now,"  said  Jim,  "perhaps  we  shall  be  able  to  get  some  sort  of  an 
idea  of  Gainsborough  at  his  best." 

I  think  it  is  open  to  doubt  whether  Mr.  Collins  had  a  feeling  for  art. 
At  least,  he  seemed  to  evince  no  desire  to  obtain  an  idea  of  Gainsborough 
at  his  best.  For  he  merely  turned  his  back  upon  Araminta,  Duchess  of 
Dorset,  and  incidentally  upon  Jim  Lascelles,  and  proceeded  in  quite  the 
grand  manner  to  shepherd  the  two  sons  of  labor  into  the  street. 

This  feat  accomplished,  Mr.  Collins  made  an  official  complaint  to  Mr. 

'That  painting  man,"  said  he,  "goes  on  as  if  the  place  belonged  to 
him.    I  don't  know  what  her  ladyship  will  say,  I'm  sure." 

"Mr.  Collins,"  said  that  pillar  of  the  Whigs  impressively,  "if  the  edu- 
cation of  the  masses  does  not  prove  the  ruin  of  this  country,  Henry 
Marchbanks  is  not  my  name." 

Miss  Perry,  in  her  second  best  frock,  the  modest  blue  serge,  descended 
the  stairs. 

"Has  the  painting  man  come  yet?"  she  inquired. 

'TTes,  miss,  he  has,"  said  Mr.  Collins  with  venom  and  with  brevity. 

'^o  you  think  I  might  go  in  and  peep  at  him,"  she  drawled  in  her 
ludicrous  way.  "I  should  so  like  to  see  a  real  painting  man  painting  a 
real  picture  with  paints." 

"If  you  obtain  her  ladyship's  permission,  I  dare  say,  miss,  you  may 
do  80,"  said  Mr.  Marchbanks  cautiously. 

Miss  Perry,  however,  as  is  the  way  of  her  sex,  when  her  curiosity  was 
fully  aroused  was  quite  capable  of  displaying  a  mind  of  her  own. 

Miss  Perry  entered  the  blue  drawing-room  noiselessly.  There  was 
the  painting  man  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  He  was  standing  with 
his  back  to  her,  and  he  was  entirely  lost  in  contemplation  of  the  master- 
piece he  had  been  commissioned  to  copy. 

"Marvellous !"  he  could  be  heard  to  exclaim  at  little  intervals  under 
his  breath,  "marvellous  I" 

154  THE  PORUM 

This  examination  of  Gainsborough's  masterpiece  was  terminated  long 
before  it  otherwise  would  have  been  by  the  intervention  of  a  drawl  of  de- 
light that,  ludicrous  as  it  was,  was  yet  perfectly  charming. 

"Why  it's  Jim,"  said  Miss  Perry — "Jim  Lascelles." 

Jim  Lascelles  turned  about  with  a  look  of  wonder  upon  his  handsome 
coimtenance.  At  first  he  said  not  a  word;  and  then  he  placed  both  hands 
upon  the  stalwart  shoulders  of  Miss  Perry  and  gave  her  a  sound  shaking 
of  afiEectionate  incredulity. 

"It  is  the  Goose  Girl,"  said  Jim.    "You  great  overgrown  thing." 

Miss  Perry  gave  what  can  only  be  described  as  a  chortle  of  human 

^Why,  Jim,"  said  she,  "you've  got  a  moustache." 

"The  Goose  Girl,"  cried  Jim,  "in  the  blessed  old  town  of  London." 

"I've  been  in  London  three  weeks,"  said  Miss  Perry  importantly. 

"I've  been  in  London  three  years,"  said  Jim  Lascelles  sadly.  ^T^That 
a  great  overgrown  thing.    You  are  taller  than  I  am." 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Miss  Perry,  "I  am  only  six  feet." 

Jim  Lascelles  declined  to  be  convinced  that  Miss  Perry  was  not 
more  than  six  feet  until  they  had  stood  back  to  back  to  take  a  measure- 

'TTou  are  monstrous,"  said  Jim.  "Are  you  as  fond  of  bread  and  jam 
and  apples  and  old  boots  as  you  used  to  be  ?  Or  let  me  see,  was  it  Doggo 
who  used  to  eat  old  boots  in  his  youth?" 

^1l  never  ate  old  boots,"  said  Miss  Perry  with  an  air  of  conviction. 

^TTes,  I  remember  now,"  said  Jim,  "old  boots  and  kitchen  chairs  were 
the  only  things  you  didn't  eat.  I've  had  many  a  licking  because  the 
Goose  Girl  was  so  fond  of  apples." 

"Have  you  ever  tasted  cream  bims,  Jim  ?"  said  she. 

"No,"  said  Jim,  "we  don't  get  those  refinements  at  Balham.  But  tell 
me,  how  is  the  Muffin  girl,  and  the  Polly  girl,  and  the  Milly  girl,  and 
Dickie  and  Charley  and  all  the  rest  of  the  barbarian  horde?  And  what  is 
the  Goose  Girl  doing  so  far  away  from  Slocum  Magna?  How  has  she 
found  her  way  into  this  superlative  neighborhood?"  The  eye  of  Jim 
Lascelles  was  arrested  by  Miss  Perry's  formal  blue  serge.  "(Jovemess, 
eh?  How  funny  that  the  Goose  Girl  with  the  brains  of  a  bumble  bee 
shoidd  be  turned  into  a  governess." 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Miss  Perry.  'T)idn't  you  know?  I  have  come  to  live 
with  Aunt  Caroline." 

"Aunt  who?"  said  James. 

"Aunt  Caroline,"  said  Miss  Perry. 

"Then  she  must  be  one  of  the  grand  relations  the  Polly  girl  used  to 

ARAMD9TA  166 

boast  about,  that  would  never  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  family  of 
Slocnm  Magna.'' 

I  hope  and  trust  that  neither  Aunt  Caroline  nor  Fonto  overheard  Jim 
Lasoellee;  in  fact  there  is -every  reason  to  believe  that  they  did  not,  be- 
cause had  they  done  so,  it  is  my  firm  belief  that  this  history  would  have 
been  over  almost  as  soon  as  it  had  begun.  Yet  this  was  the  indubitable 
moment  that  Fonto  and  his  mistress  chose  to  make  their  entrance  into 
the  blue  drawing-room.  The  instant  Jim  Lascelles  caught  sight  of  the 
headdress,  the  black  silk,  the  ebony  walking  stick  and  the  obese  quadruped 
with  gargoyle  eyes,  he  checked  his  discourse  and  bowed  in  a  very  becom- 
ing manner. 

"Aimt  Caroline,''  said  Miss  Perry  with  a  presence  of  mind  which 
really  did  her  the  highest  credit,  "this  is  Mr.  Lascelles  who  has  come  to 
paint  the  picture." 

The  old  lady  fixed  her  eyeglass  with  polar  coolness. 

"So  I  perceive,"  said  she. 

She  looked  Jim  over  as  if  he  himself  were  a  masterpiece  by  Gains- 
borough, and  without  making  any  comment  she  and  Fonto  withdrew  from 
the  blue  drawing-room. 

"A  singularly  disagreeable  and  ill-bred  old  woman,"  said  Jim,  who 
had  the  unf ortimate  habit  of  speaking  his  mind  freely  on  all  occasions. 

"Aunt  Caroliae  is  rather  reserved  with  strangers,"  said  Miss  Ferry, 
"but  she  is  a  dear,  really." 

"She  is  not  a  dear  at  all,"  said  Jim  Lascelles,  "and  she's  not  a  bit  like 
one.    She  is  just  a  proud,  disagreeable  and  unmannerly  old  woman." 

Miss  Ferry  looked  genuinely  concerned.  For  Jim  Lascelles  was  angry 
and  she  felt  herself  to  be  responsible  for  Aunt  Caroline.  However,  there 
was  one  resource  left  for  the  hour  of  affliction. 

'TVould  you  like  to  see  Tobias?"  said  she.  "I've  got  biTn  with  me. 
I  will  fetch  the  sweet." 

"What  I  Is  that  ferret  still  alive?"  said  Jim.  'Ttfy  hat  1"  And  then  as 
Miss  Ferry  moved  to  the  drawing-room  door,  said  Jim,  "Oh,  no,  you  don't. 
Come  back  and  sit  there  on  that  sofa  if  it  is  quite  up  to  your  weight,  and 
I  will  show  you  how  to  paint  a  picture." 

"What  fun,"  cried  Miss  Ferry,  returning  obediently.  *T)o  you  re- 
member teaching  me  how  to  draw  cows?" 

"Yes,  I  do,"  said  Jim  Lascelles.  "You  could  draw  as  good  a  cow  as 
anybody  I  ever  saw,  and  that's  the  only  thing  you  could  do  except  sit  a 
horse  and  handle  a  ferret  and  eat  bread  and  jam." 

Miss  Ferry  sat  in  the  middle  of  the  sofa.  By  force  of  habit  she  as- 
sumed her  most  characteristic  pose. 

^There  vss  also  one  other  thing  jou  could  do,"  said  Jim  LModlea. 
'^When  you  vere  not  actoallj  engaged  in  eating  bread  and  jam,  joa  oould 
ahrajiait  hoajB  on  end  vfth  jour  finger  in  jour  mouth,  thinking  hov  you 
vese  going  to  eat  iU* 

Jim  took  up  his  cfaartoaL 

^'Gooae  GirV  said  he,  ^it's  the  oddest  thing  out.  Araminta,  Dudieas 
of  Dorset,  had  the  habit  of  sticking  her  pav  in  her  mouth.  And  111  take 
mj  dary  her  thoughts  vere  of  bread  and  jam." 

''Cream  buns  are  so  much  nicer,"  said  Miss  Perry,  sighing  gently. 

''You  have  grown  a  perfect  Sybarite  since  you  came  to  London," 
said  Jim.  "Nobody  ever  suspected  the  existence  of  cream  buns  at  Slocum 

Suddenly  and  without  any  sort  of  warning  something  flashed  through 
Jim  Lascelles,  and  this  by  some  occult  means  conferred  the  air  and  the 
look  upon  him  that  gets  people  into  encyclopedias. 

"Don't  move.  Goose  Girl,"  said  he.  "Do  you  know  who  has  painted 
that  hair  of  youm?" 

"I  don't  think  it  has  been  painted,"  said  Miss  Perry. 

"That  is  all  you  know,"  said  Jim.  "Tour  hair  has  been  painted  by 
the  light  of  the  morning." 

Jim  Lascelles  laid  down  his  charcoal  and  took  up  the  brush  that  on 
a  day  was  to  make  him  famous.  He  dipped  the  tip  of  it  in  bright  yellow 
pigment;  and  although,  as  all  the  world  knows,  the  hair  of  Araminta, 
Duchess  of  Dorset,  is  unmistakably  auburn,  Jim  began  by  flinging  a 
splotch  of  yellow  upon  the  great  canvas. 

"Goose  Girl,"  said  Jim  with  a  joyous  expression  that  made  him  ap- 
pear preposterously  handsome,  "I  have  sometimes  felt  that  if  it  should 
ever  be  my  luck  to  happen  upon  a  great  subject,  I  might  turn  out  a 

"Your  mamma  always  said  you  would,"  said  Miss  Perry. 

"And  your  papa  always  said  you  would  marry  an  earl,"  said  Jim 

Quite  suddenly  the  blue  drawing-room  vibrated  with  a  note  of  tri- 

"Oh,  Jim  I"  it  said,  "I've  almost  forgotten  to  tell  you  about  my  lilac 

"Have  you  a  lilac  frock?"  said  Jim. 

"You  remember  the  mauve  that  Muffin  had  ?"  said  Miss  Perry  breath- 

"After  my  time,'^  said  Jim  Ijascelles.  "But  I  pity  a  mauve  on  the 


'*Mufl5ii^8  mauve  was  perfect/'  said  Miss  Perry.  **Aiid  my  lilac  is 
nearly  as  nice  as  Mufl5n*s/' 

"Put  it  on  to-morrow/'  said  Jim.  "PU  inspect  you  in  it,  you  great 
overgrown  thing.  Now,  don't  move  the  Goose  Piece,  you  Silly.  The  light 
of  the  morning  strikes  it  featly.  Eeally,  I  doubt  whether  this  yellow  be 
bright  enough." 

"Jim/'  said  Miss  Perry,  "to-morrow  I  will  show  you  my  new  hat." 

"Stick  your  paw  in  your  mouth,"  said  Jim.  "And  don't  dare  to  take 
it  out  until  you  are  told  to.  And  keep  the  Goose  Piece  just  where  it  is. 
Think  of  cream  buns." 

"They  are  awfully  nice,"  said  Miss  Perry. 

Jim  Lascelles  dabbed  another  fearsome  splotch  of  yellow  upon  the 
great  canvas. 

"Monsieur  Gillet  would  give  his  great  French  soul,"  said  Jim  softly, 
"for  the  hair  of  the  foolish  Goose  Girl  whose  soul  is  composed  of  cream 
buns.    Ye  gods!" 

Why  James  Lascelles  should  have  been  guilty  of  that  irrelevant  ex- 
clamation, I  cannot  say.  Perhaps  it  was  that  the  young  fellow  fancied 
that  he  heard  the  first  faint  distant  crackle  of  the  immortal  laughter. 
Well,  well  I  we  are  but  mortal ;  and  who  but  the  gods  have  made  us  so  ? 



The  next  morning  at  ten  o'clock,  when  Jim  Lascelles  appeared  for 
the  second  time  in  Hill  Street,  he  was  received  in  the  blue  drawing-room 
by  the  lilac  frock  and  its  wonderful  canopy.  Jim  gave  back  a  step  before 
the  picture  that  was  presented. 

"My  aunt  1"  said  he. 

"The  frock  is  a  sweet,"  said  Miss  Perry.    'Isn't  it?  MuflBn's ^" 

"Goose  Girl/'  said  Jim,  "you  are  marvellous." 

"I  think  the  hat  must  flop  a  little  too  much,"  said  Miss  Perry,  "in 
places.    It  makes  people  turn  round  to  stare  at  it." 

"Of  course  it  does,  you  foolish  person,"  said  Jim,  with  little  guflfaws  of 
rapture.  'It  is  an  absolute  aboriginal  runcible  hat.  How  did  you  come 
by  it?    It  seems  to  me  there  are  deep  minds  in  this." 

"Lord  Andover  chose  it,"  said  Miss  Perry. 

"My  noble  patron  and  employer/'  said  Jim.  "It  does  him  infinite 
credit.    That  hat  is  an  achievement." 


"Aimt  Caroline  doesn't  like  it,"  said  Miss  Perry.  ''Especially  in 

''Aunt  Caroline  is  a  Visigoth/'  said  Jim.  "Let  us  forget  her.  Sit 
there,  you  Goose,  where  you  sat  yesterday.  And  if  you  don't  move  and 
don't  speak  for  an  hour,  you  shall  have  a  cream  bun." 

It  was  bribery,  of  course,  on  the  part  of  Jim  Lascelles,  but  Miss  Perry 
made  instant  preparation  to  earn  the  promised  guerdon. 

"You  are  so  marvellous,"  said  Jim,  "that  poor  painting  chaps  ought 
not  to  look  at  you.  Oho !  I  begin  to  have  light  I  b^^  to  see  where 
that  lilac  arrangement  and  that  incredible  headpiece  came  from.  By  the 
way.  Goose  Girl,  is  it  possible  that  Araminta,  Duchess  of  Dorset,  is  one 
of  your  grand  relations  ?" 

"She  is  my  great-grandmamma,"  said  Miss  Perry. 

"She  must  be,"  said  Jim.  '^What  has  old  Dame  Nature  been 
doing,  I  wonder?  Copying  former  successes.  And  old  Sir  President 
History,  E.A.,  famous  painter  of  genre,  repeating  himself  like  one 

Jim  Lascelles  began  to  sketch  the  incredible  hat  with  great  vigor  and 

"By  all  the  gods  of  Monsieur  Qillet,"  said  Jim,  vaingloriously,  "they 
will  want  a  rail  to  guard  it  at  the  Luxembourg." 

Yet  Jim  was  really  a  modest  young  fellow.  Could  it  be  that  already  a 
phial  of  the  magic  potion  had  been  injected  into  the  veins  of  that  sane 
and  amiable  youth? 

"Goose  Girl,"  said  Jim,  "it  is  quite  clear  to  me  that  if  the  Duchess 
was  your  great-grandmamma,  Thomas  Gainsborough,  S.A.,  was  my  old 
great-granddad.  Now,  don't  move  the  Goose  Piece.  She  wear-eth  a 
mar-vel-lous  hat!"  Jim's  charcoal  was  performing  surprising  antics. 
"Chin  Piece  quite  still.  Wonderful  natural  angle.  Can  you  keep  good 
if  you  take  your  paw  out  of  your  mouth  ?" 

"I  wiU  try  to,"  said  Miss  Perry,  with  perfect  docility. 

"We  will  risk  it,"  said  Jim.  "Keep  saying  to  yourself,  'Only  thirty- 
five  minutes  more  and  I  get  a  cream  bun.' " 

"Yes,  Jim,"  said  Miss  Perry,  with  a  remarkable  air  of  intelligence. 

"Paws  down,"  said  Jim.  "Hold  'em  thusly.  Move  not  the  Chin 
Piece,  the  Young  Man  said.  No,  and  not  the  Whole  of  the  White  and 
Pink  and  Blue  and  Yellow  Goose  Piece  neither." 

Perhaps  it  is  not  strictly  accurate  to  state  that  Jim  dropped  into 
poetry  as  he  continued  the  study  of  his  subject.  But  certainly  he  in- 
dulged in  a  kind  of  language  which  assumed  lyrical  form. 

'Taws  down,"  said  Jim.    "She  approacheth  her  Mouth  Piece  upon 


pain  of  losmg  her  Bun.    Paw  Pieces  quite  quiet.    Move  not  the  Chin 
Piece^  the  Young  Man  said.^' 

The  blue  eyes  of  Miss  Perry  were  open  to  their  limit.  They  seemed 
to  devour  the  slow  ticking  clock  upon  the  chimney  piece.  At  last  virtue 
was  able  to  claim  its  reward. 

"Cream  bim,  please,"  drawled  Miss  Perry  in  a  manner  that  was  really 

"It  can^t  possibly  be  an  hour  yet,"  said  Jim. 

"It  is,"  said  Miss  Perry,  with  great  conviction.    "It  is,  honestly/' 

"Very  good,"  said  Jim.  "Young  Man  taketh  Goose  Girl's  word  of 
honor."  He  produced  a  neat-looking  white  paper  packet  from  his  coat 
pocket.  "Goose  Girl  presenteth  Paw  Piece,"  said  he,  "to  receive  Diploma 
of  Merit.    A  short  interval  for  slight  but  well  deserved  nourishment." 

Miss  Perry  lost  no  time  in  divesting  the  packet  of  its  trappings.  I 
don't  say  positively  that  her  satisfaction  assumed  an  audible  form  when 
she  beheld  the  seductive  delicacy  of  its  contents.  But  it  is  not  imlikely. 
At  any  rate  she  lost  no  time  in  taking  a  very  large  bite  out  of  a  bun  of 
quite  modest  dimensions. 

"Jim,"  said  she,  "it  is  quite  as  nice  as  the  ones  that  come  from 

"It  is  their  own  brother,"  said  Jim.    "This  comes  from  Buszard's." 

'H-E-EeaUy,"  said  Miss  Perry,  with  a  doubtful  roll  of  the  letter  E. 
"But  those  that  Gobo  brings  me  are  larger." 

"They  grow  more  than  one  size  at  Buszard's,"  said  Jim.  "Gobo  is  a 
bit  of  a  duke,  I  daresay." 

"He  is  a  duke,"  said  Miss  Perry. 

"If  I  were  a  duke,"  said  Jim,  "I  should  bring  you  the  large  size. 
But  as  I  am  only  Jim  LasceUes,  who  lives  at  Balham,  you  will  have  to 
be  content  with  the  small  ones." 

It  may  have  been  that  Miss  Perry  was  a  little  disappointed,  because 
the  small  ones  only  meant  a  bite  and  a  little  one.  But  she  contrived  to 
conceal  her  disappointment  very  successfully.  Although  brought  up  in 
the  country  she  had  excellent  breeding. 

"Jim,"  said  Miss  Perry,  "where  is  Balham?" 

"Quite  a  ducal  question,"  said  Jim. 

"Is  it  as  far  from  London  as  London  is  from  Slocum  Magna?"  said 
Miss  Perry. 

"I  acquit  you  of  arriire  pensee/*  said  Jim.  "Here  is  Lord  Andover. 
You  had  better  ask  him  where  Balham  is." 

That  nobleman  in  resplendent  morning  attire  entered  with  an  air  that 
was  fatherly. 


*'I8  it  my  privilege  to  make  yon  known  to  one  another?*'  said  he  with 
an  air  of  vast  benevolence,  '^y'ward.  Miss  Perry.  Mr.  Lascelles,  the 
coming  Gainsborough.'' 

"Oh,  I've  known  Jim — ^"  Miss  Perry  began  blnrting,  when,  it  is 
grievous  to  have  to  inform  the  gentle  reader,  that  Jim  Lascelles  dealt 
her  a  stealthy  but  absolutely  unmistakable  kick  on  the  shin  in  quite  the 
old  Widdif  ord  manner. 

"Can  you  tell  me  where  Balham  is?"  Miss  Perry  inquired  of  Lord 
Andover  with  really  wonderful  presence  of  mind.  But  there  was  a  real 
honest  tear  in  her  eyes;  and  tears  are  known  to  be  an  excellent  old-fash- 
ioned specific  for  the  wits. 

"Certainly  I  can,"  said  he  with  courtly  alacrity.  ^TBalham  is  an  out- 
lying part  of  the  vast  metropolis.  It  is  a  most  interesting  place  with 
many  honorable  associations." 

"Jim,"  the  luckless  Miss  Perry  was  beginning,  but  happily  on  this 
occasion  Jim  Lascelles  had  no  need  to  do  more  than  show  her  his  boot, 
while  Andover's  sense  of  hearing  was  by  no  means  so  acute  as  it  might 
have  been;  "Mr.  Lascelles,"  Miss  Perry  contrived  to  correct  herself,  '^ves 
at  Balham." 

"Then  we  are  able,"  said  Andover,  "to  congratidate  Mr.  Lascelles 
and  also  to  congratulate  Balham.  But  tell  me,  Lascelles,  why  you  live 
in  an  outlying  part  of  the  vast  metropolis  when  the  centre  calls  you?" 

"We  live  at  Balham,"  said  Jim,  "my  mother  and  I,  because  it  is 
cheap  but  respectable." 

"A  satisfying  combination,"  said  Andover.  ^T.  trust  the  presence  of 
my  ward.  Miss  Perry,  does  not  retard  the  progress  of  your  artistic  labors." 

"Quite  the  contrary,  I  assure  you,"  said  Jim,  with  excellent  politeness. 

"I  am  glad  of  that,"  said  Andover.  "But  as  you  may  have  already 
discovered.  Miss  Perry  has  quite  the  feeling  for  art." 

'TTes,"  said  Jim,  perhaps  conventionally,  "I  am  sure  she  has." 

'It  is  a  very  remarkable  case  of  heredity,"  said  Andover.  'Ton  see, 
my  dear  Lascelles,  Gainsborough  painted  her  great-grandmamma." 

"So  I  understand,"  said  Jim  solemnly. 

"It  is  a  great  pleasure  to  me,  my  dear  Lascelles,"  said  Andover,  "that 
Miss  Perry's  taste  in  art  is  so  sure.  We  go  to  the  National  Gallery  to- 
gether, hand  in  hand  as  it  were,  to  admire  the  great  Velasquez." 

'^Ee  is  a  sweet,"  said  Miss  Perry. 

"And,  my  dear  Lascelles,"  said  Andover,  "we  profoundly  admire  the 
great  Eembrandt  also." 

"He  is  a  sweet,  too,"  said  Miss  Perry. 

"And,  my  dear  Lascelles,  together  we  share — ^Miss  Perry  and  I — a 


slight  distrust  of  the  permanent  merit  .of  Joseph  Wright  of  Derby.  The 
fact  is  Joseph  Wright  of  Derby  somehow  fails  to  inspire  our  confidence. 
One  can  imderstand  Joseph  Wright  of  SheflSeld  perfectly  well ;  or  even 
perhaps — ^mind  I  do  not  say  positively — Joseph  Wright  of  Nottingham; 
but  I  put  it  to  you,  Lascelles,  can  one  accept  Joseph  Wright  of  Derby  as 
belonging  to  all  time?*^ 

"I  agree  with  you/'  said  Jim.  ^TTet  was  there  not  once  an  immortal 
bom  at  Burton  on  Trent?'' 

**I  never  heard  that  there  was/'  said  Andover  with  an  air  of  pained 
surprise.  "And  that  is  a  matter  upon  which  I  am  hardly  open  to  con- 
viction. By  the  way,  Lascelles,  which  of  England's  luscious  pastures  had 
the  glory  of  giving  birth  to  your  genius?" 

As  a  preliminary  measure  Jim  Lascelles  showed  Miss  Perry  his  boot. 

'T  was  bom,"  said  Jim  modestly,  yet  observing  that  the  blue  eyes 
of  Miss  Perry  were  adequately  fixed  on  his  boot,  "at  a  little  place  called 
Widdiford  in  the  north  of  Devon." 

'Tcs,  of  course,"  said  Andover  graciously;  "I  ought  to  have  remeih- 
bered,  as  your  father  and  I  were  at  school  together.  I  remember  dis- 
tinctly that  it  was  the  opinion  of  the  fourth  form  common  room  that 
the  finest  clotted  cream  and  the  finest  strawberry  jam  in  the  world  came 
from  Widdiford." 

"It  is  almost  as  nice  at  Slocum  Magna/'  said  Miss  Perry,  in  spite 
of  the  covert  threat  that  was  still  lurking  in  Jim's  outstretched  boot. 

"Quite  so,"  said  Andover.  "Ha,  happy  halcyon  days  of  youth,  when 
the  cream  was  really  clotted  and  the  strawberries  were  really  ripe !  But 
I  seem  to  remember  that  Widdiford  is  remarkable  for  something  else." 

Miss  Perry  was  prepared  to  enlighten  Lord  Andover,  but  Jim's  boot 
rose  ferociously. 

"Stick  paw  in  Mouth  Piece,"  Jim  whispered  truculently,  "and  merely 
think  of  cream  buns." 

"Widdiford,"  said  Andover,  'let  me  see.  In  what  connection  have 
I  heard  that  charmingly  poetic  name?  Ah,  to  be  sure,  I  remember. 
Widdiford  is  the  place  at  which  they  have  not  quite  got  the  railway. 
Miss  Araminta,  is  not  that  the  case?" 

"Yes,"  said  Miss  Perry,  "but  it  is  only  three  miles  away." 

"And  what  is  the  proximity,"  said  Andover,  a  little  dubiously  it  is 
to  be  feared,  "of  Widdiford  to  Slocum  Magna?" 

"The  best  part  of  two  miles,"  said  Jim  Lascelles,  boldly  taking  the 
bull  by  the  horns.  "Quite  a  coincidence  isn't  it  that  we  should  have  lived 
at  the  Eed  House  at  Widdiford,  and  that  Miss  Perry's  papa  should  have 
lived  at  the  Parsonage  at  Slocum  Magna?    In  fact  I  seem  to  remember 

182  THE  FORUM 

Miss  Perry  or  one  of  her  sisters  as  quite  a  tot  of  a  girl  sitting  as  good  as 
pie  in  the  vicarage  pew/' 

It  was  here  that  Jim's  boot  did  wonders.  Miss  Perry  was  simply 
besieged  by  voices  from  the  npper  atmosphere  beseeching  her  to  give  the 
whole  thing  away  completely.  She  refrained,  however.  Her  respect  for 
Jim's  boot  enabled  her  to  continue  sitting  as  good  as  pie. 

That  being  the  case,  let  ns  offer  this  original  piece  of  observation  for 
what  it  18  worth.  Cream  buns  are  remarkably  efficient  in  some  situations, 
while  an  uncompromising  right  boot  is  equally  efficient  in  others.  To 
Jim  Lascelles  belongs  the  credit  of  having  assimilated  early  in  life  this 
excellent  truth. 

Andover  turned  to  see  what  progress  Jim  Lascelles  had  made  with 
his  labors. 

'^eiy  good  progress,  Lascelles,"  said  he.  Yet  something  appeared 
to  trouble  Andover.  'TJpon  my  word,"  said  he,  "either  my  eyesight  be- 
trays me  or  the  color  of  your  girl's  hair  is  yellow." 

"Is  it?"  said  Jim  Lascelles  innocently.  ^TTes,  so  it  is,  as  yellow  as 
the  light  of  the  morning." 

"The  duchess's  hair  is  auburn  unmistakably,"  said  Andover. 

"Why,  yes,"  said  Jim,  'T)ut  really  don't  you  think  yellow  will  be 
quite  as  effective?" 

Andover  gazed  at  Jim  Lascelles  in  profound  astonishment. 

"My  good  fellow,"  said  he,  "I  hope  you  understand  what  you  are 
commissioned  to  do.  You  are  commissioned  to  make  a  precise  and  exact 
copy  of  Gainsborough's  Duchess  of  Dorset  for  Andover  House,  not  to 
perpetrate  a  tour  de  force  of  your  own.  Upon  my  word,  Lascelles,  that 
hair  is  really  too  much.  And  the  set  of  the  hat,  as  far  as  one  may  judge 
at  present,  certainly  differs  from  the  original.  I  am  sorry  to  say  so, 
Xascelles,  but  really  I  think  in  the  interests  of  all  parties  you  had  better 
start  again." 

Jim  put  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  Upon  his  handsome  countenance 
was  a  very  whimsical  if  somewhat  dubious  expression. 

'TJord  Andover,"  said  he  solemnly,  "the  truth  is  if  I  could  have 
afforded  to  lose  a  cool  hundred  pounds,  which  I  don't  mind  saying  is 
more  than  the  whole  of  what  I  made  last  year,  I  should  not  have  accepted 
this  commission.  As  I  have  accepted  it  I  shall  do  my  best;  and  if  the 
results  are  not  satisfactory  I  shall  not  look  for  remuneration." 

"Well,  Lascelles,"  said  his  patron,  "that  is  a  straightforward  propo- 
sition. I  daresay  it  is  this  confounded  French  method  of  looking  at 
things  that  has  misled  you  so  hopelessly.  'Pon  my  word  I  never  saw 
such  hair,  and  Gillet  never  saw  such  hair  either.    It  is  enough  to  make 


Gainsborongh  turn  in  his  grave.  It  is  most  providential  that  I  hap- 
pened to  look  in.    Take  a  fresh  piece  of  canvas  and  start  again.*^ 

Jim  Lascelles  laid  his  head  to  one  side  with  a  continuance  of  his 
whimsical  and  dubious  air.  There  was  no  doubt  that  the  yellow  was 
extremely  bold  and  that  the  hair  of  the  duchess  was  aubum. 

Yet  what  of  the  cause  of  the  mischief?  There  she  sat  on  the  sofa 
in  her  favorite  pose,  blissfully  unconscious  of  the  trouble  she  had  wrought, 
for  there  could  be  no  doubt  whatever  that  her  thoughts  were  of  cream 
buns.  And  further  it  seemed  to  Jim  Lascelles  that  there  could  be  no 
doubt  either  that  her  hair  had  been  painted  by  the  light  of  the  morning. 
Andover,  however,  was  too  much  preoccupied  with  the  duchess  to  observe 
that  fact. 

'Ttfy  dear  Miss  Araminta,^'  said  he,  "as  this  is  a  really  fine  morning 
and  this  is  really  the  month  of  May,  let  us  stroll  into  the  park  and  watch 
young  England  performing  maritime  feats  on  the  Serpentine.  And 
after  luncheon,  if  the  weather  keeps  fine,  we  will  go  to  the  circus.** 

''What  fun  r  said  Miss  Perry. 



Caroline  Crewkeme^s  "Wednesdays"  had  not  been  so  thronged  for 
many  years  past.  They  had  been  in  their  heyday  twenty  years  earlier 
in  the  world's  history,  when  the  spacious  mansion  in  Hill  Street  was  the 
fount  of  the  most  malicious  gossip  to  be  obtained  in  London.  But  the 
passing  of  the  years  had  bereft  Caroline  of  something  of  her  vigor  and 
of  even  more  of  her  savoir  faire.  She  had  grown  difficult  and  rather  out 
of  date. 

However,  it  had  recently  been  decreed  in  the  interests  of  human 
nature  that  Caroline  Crewkeme  should  come  into  vogue  again.  People 
were  to  be  seen  at  her  "Wednesdays*^  who  had  not  been  seen  there  for 

There  was  George  Betterton  for  one.  And  the  worldly  wise,  of  course, 
were  very  quick  to  account  for  his  presence,  and  to  turn  it  to  pleasure 
and  profit.  Andover  and  he  were  both  popular  men ;  and  about  the  third 
week  in  May  two  to  one  against  George  and  three  to  one  against  Andover 
were  taken  and  offered. 

"Andover  is  the  prettier  sparrer,"  said  students  of  form,  "but  Gobo 
of  course  has  the  weighf 

154  ^™®  FOKUM 

^T.  afisure  you,  my  dear/^  said  members  of  another  and  decidedly  in- 
fluential section  of  the  public,  "the  creature  is  a  perfect  simpleton.  I 
assure  you  she  couldn't  say  ^o !'  to  a  goose.  It  is  inconceivable  that 
two  men  as  old  as  they  are  and  in  their  position  should  make  themselves 
so  supremely  ridiculous.    And  both  of  them  old  enough  to  be  her  father.'' 

"Caroline  Crewkeme  is  behind  it  all,''  said  the  philosophic.  **Her 
hand  has  lost  nothing  of  its  cimning.  Beally  it  is  odious  to  aid  and  abet 
them  to  make  such  an  exhibition  of  themselves." 

It  is  regrettable  all  the  same  to  have  to  state  that  the  exhibition  was 
enjoyed  hugely.  And  when  the  Morning  Post  announced  that  on  a  cer- 
tain evening  the  Countess  of  Crewkeme  would  give  a  dance  for  Miss 
Perry  there  was  some  little  competition  to  receive  a  card  for  the  same. 

Cards  were  liberally  dispensed,  but  when  they  came  to  hand  many 
persons  of  the  quieter  and  less  ostentatious  sort  found  that  a  little  fly 
had  crept  into  the  ointment.  "Fancy  dress"  was  to  be  seen  written  at 
the  top  in  a  style  of  caligraphy  not  unworthy  of  Miss  Pinkerton's  Acad- 
emy for  young  ladies.  Miss  Burden  had  been  commanded  to  do  this  at 
the  eleventh  hour. 

"That  man  Andover  is  responsible  for  this,"  complained  those  who 
desired  neither  the  expense  nor  the  inconvenience  of  habiting  themselves 
in  the  garb  of  another  age,  "because  he  thinks  he  looks  well  in  breeches." 

That  may  have  been  partly  the  reason ;  but  in  justice  to  Andover  it  is 
only  right  to  state  that  unless  he  had  found  a  weightier  pretext  to 
advance  Caroline  Crewkeme  would  never  have  assented  to  this  somewhat 
eccentric  condition.  Indeed  it  was  only  after  a  heated  argument  between 
them  that  Andover  contrived  to  get  his  way. 

'Ton  must  always  be  flamboyant  and  theatrical,"  grunted  Caroline, 
"at  every  opportunity.    All  the  world  knows  you  look  well  in  breeches." 

'*I  protest,  my  dear  Caroline,"  said  the  mellifluous  Andover,  "it  is 
merely  mj  desire  to  put  another  plume  in  your  helmet.  The  creature 
will  look  ravishing  as  Araminta,  Duchess  of  Dorset.  Pelissier  shall  come 
this  afternoon  to  copy  the  picture  de  haut  en  las/* 

"It  has  been  copied  once  already,"  said  Caroline. 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Andover.  'It  supplied  an  idea  or  two  merely.  When 
you  see  it  in  every  detail  precisely  as  Gainsborough  saw  it  you  will 
observe  the  difference." 

'Teople  must  be  as  sick  of  the  picture  as  I  am  by  this  time,"  said 

"Nonsense,"  said  Andover.  "They  are  only  just  beginning  to  realize 
that  you've  got  a  picture." 

Let  it  not  be  thought  an  injustice  to  Andover  if  one  other  motive  is 


advanced  for  his  insistence  upon  a  somewhat  singular  course.  When  the 
cards  of  invitation  had  been  duly  issued  he  rather  let  the  cat  out  of 
his  bag.  !    '    t    '  '^^^ 

"Of  course,  Caroline,  you  would  be  obstinate,'*  said  he,  ''and  have 
your  own  way  about  that  fellow  (Jeorge  Betterton,  but  you  know  as  well 
as  I  do  that  in  any  kind  of  fancy  clothes  he  looks  like  a  boa  constrictor/' 

At  first  Andover  professed  himself  as  unable  to  decide  whether  he 
should  appear  as  Charles  II  or  as  John  Wesley.  In  the  end,  however,  he 
decided  in  favor  of  the  former.  Miss  Burden  had  not  been  so  excited  for 
years.  The  subject  filled  her  thoughts  day  and  night  for  a  whole  week 
after  the  momentous  decision  was  taken.  She  then  submitted  tiie  pe- 
culiarly difiicult  problem  one  day  to  his  lordship  at  luncheon. 

"Not  a  problem  at  all,''  said  he.  "Simplest  thing  in  the  world,  my 
dear  lady.    There  is  only  one  possible  person  you  can  go  as." 

"I  had  been  thinking  of  Mary,  Queen  of  Scots,"  said  Miss  Burden, 
hardly  daring  to  hope  that  Lord  Andover  would  give  his  sanction. 

"Mary,  Queen  of  Who  ?"  snarled  Caroline. 

"No,  my  dear  Miss  Burden,"  said  the  eminent  authority,  "the  only  pos- 
sible person  you  can  go  as  is  Katharine  of  Aragon." 

"Nonsense,  Andover,"  said  Caroline,  "I  shall  not  permit  Burden  to 
appear  in  any  such  character.  A  Jane  Austen  spinster  will  be  far  more 
appropriate  and  far  less  expensive." 

"My  dear  Caroline,"  said  Andover,  "how  it  would  help  everybody,  if 
you  did  not  insist  on  airing  your  views  upon  matters  of  art.  Do  you  wish 
Miss  Burden  to  forfeit  entirely  her  natural  distinction?" 

Miss  Burden  blushed  most  becomingly  at  his  lordship's  remark. 

"I  was  not  aware  that  she  had  any,"  said  the  ruthless  Caroline. 

"Upon  my  word,  Caroline,"  said  Andover,  "even  I  begin  to  despair  of 
you.  I  assure  you.  Miss  Burden  is  quite  one  of  the  most  distinguished 
looking  women  of  my  acquaintance." 

Miss  Burden  looked  almost  as  startled  as  a  faun.  Andover  had  never 
seen  her  display  so  much  color  as  when  he  made  her  a  little  bow  to  attest 
his  lona  fides.  It  was  rather  a  pity  that  his  smile  unconsciously  resembled 
that  of  a  satyr;  not,  however,  that  it  really  mattered,  for  although  the 
ever-observant  Caroline  duly  noted  it  Miss  Burden  did  not. 

"It  is  twenty-five  minutes  past  two.  Lord  Andover,"  said  Miss  Perry, 
putting  a  sugar  plum  in  her  mouth,  "and  you  have  promised  to  take  me 
to  the  circus." 

"Andover,"  said  the  old  lady,  "I  forbid  you  to  do  anything  of  the 
kind.    To  spend  three  afternoons  a  week  at  a  circus  is  outrageous." 

"They  are  so  educational,"  said  Andover.    "Develop  the  mind.    Show 



how  intelligence  can  be  inculcated  into  the  most  unlikely  things.  Horses 
good  at  arithmetic,  dogs  playing  whist,  cats  indulging  in  spiritualism. 
Very  educational  indeed.  Clown  imitating  monkey  in  lifelike  manner. 
Illustration  of  the  origin  of  species.  One  more  sugar  plum,  my  dear  Miss 
Araminta,  and  then  Marchbanks  will  summon  a  hansom.'' 

"Gobo  is  going  to  take  me  to  the  Horse  Show  to-morrow,"  Miss  Perry 

'TVho,  pray,  is  Gobo?"  Aunt  Caroline  and  Lord  Andover  demanded  in 
one  breath. 

"He  asked  me  to  call  him  Gobo,''  said  Miss  Perry,  helping  herself 
calmly  to  sugar  plums,  "and  I  asked  him  to  call  me  Gtoose.'* 

Andover's  countenance  was  unmistakably  a  study.  The  same  might 
be  said  of  that  of  Aunt  Caroline. 

"My  dear  young  lady,"  said  Andover,  "this  must  not  be.  One  of  the 
most  dangerous  men  in  London.  Really,  Caroline,  you  must  forbid  that 
old  ruffian  the  house.  As  for  the  Horse  Show  to-morrow  it  is  clearly  out 
of  the  question." 

"I  promised  Gobo,"  said  Miss  Perry.  "And  I  don't  like  to  break  a 
promise,  do  you?" 

*TMy  dear  young  lady,"  said  Andover,  "you  are  much  too  young  and 
inexperienced  to  make  a  promise,  let  alone  to  keep  one.  I  speak  as  I 
feel  sure  your  papa  would  do  were  he  in  my  place,  and  as  I  know  I  should 
do  were  I  in  the  place  of  your  papa.  Your  aimt  is  quite  of  that  opinion; 
I  speak  for  her  also.  You  must  not  call  that  man  Gobo,  he  must  not 
call  you  Goose,  and  as  for  the  Horse  Show  it  is  out  of  the  question." 

'*But  everybody  calls  me  Goose,"  said  Miss  Perry,  *T)ecause  I  am 
rather  a  Sillay." 

"Caroline,"  said  Andover  with  much  gravity,  "if  you  will  take  the 
advice  of  your  oldest  friend  you  will  forbid  that  man  the  house.  My 
dear  Miss  Araminta,  let  us  try  to  obliterate  a  very  disagreeable  impression 
by  spending  a  quietly  educational  afternoon  at  the  circus." 

When  on  the  morning  of  the  great  day  of  the  fancy  ball.  Miss  Perry 
entered  the  presence  of  Jim  Lascelles  as  the  faithful  embodiment,  down  to 
the  minutest  particular,  of  Gainsborough's  masterpiece,  that  assiduous 
young  fellow  was  seized  with  despair.    It  took  the  form  of  a  gasp. 

"(Joose  Girl,"  said  he,  '*!  shall  have  to  give  up  coming  here.  I  paint 
you  all  the  morning,  I  think  of  you  all  the  afternoon  and  evening,  and  I 
dream  of  you  all  night.  You  know  you  have  rather  knocked  a  hole  in  my 
little  world." 

'There  will  be  ices  to-night,"  said  Miss  Perry.  'Tjord  Andover  almost 
thinks  pink  ices  are  nicest." 

ARAMrNTA  167 

"Confound  Lord  Andover,**  said  Jim  with  unpardonable  bluntness, 
*^and  confound  pink  ices." 

'*I  thought  I  would  just  put  on  my  new  frock,"  said  Miss  Perry, 
"to  see  if  you  think  it  is  as  nice  as  you  think  the  lilac  is." 

'T  have  no  tiioughts  at  all  this  morning,"  said  Jim  Lascelles,  "about 
your  new  frock  or  about  anything  else.  My  mind  is  a  chaos,  my  wretched 
brain  goes  round  and  roimd,  and  what  do  you  suppose  it  is  because  of?" 

'*I  don't  know,"  said  Miss  Perry. 

"It  is  because  of  you,"  said  Jim  Lascelles.  ^Tjook  at  that  canvas 
yotfve  ruined.  Yellow  hair — runcible  hat — ^lilac  frock — full-fledged 
cream  bun  appearance.  You  will  lose  me  my  commission,  which  means  a 
cool  hundred  pounds  out  of  my  pocket,  and  my  mamma  has  denied  her- 
self common  necessaries  to  pay  for  my  education.  Goose  Girl,"  Jim  Las- 
celles concluded  a  little  hoarsely,  f*I  am  growing  afraid  of  you.  You  are 
a  sorceress.    Something  tells  me  that  you  will  be  my  ruin." 

'T[  wish  you  had  seen  MuflBn's  mauve,"  said  Miss  Perry,  who  showed 
very  little  concern  for  Jim's  ruin. 

'T!  have  not  the  least  desire  to  see  Muffin's  mauve,"  said  Jim  Las- 
celles. 'TEn  fact,  I  thank  the  God  who  looks  after  poor  painters,  if  there 
is  such  a  Deity,  which  I  take  leave  to  doubt,  that  I  have  not  seen  it.  But 
I  intend  to  ask  you  this  question.  What  right  have  you,  Goose  Girl,  to 
grow  so  extravagantly  perfect,  to  get  yourself  up  in  this  ravishing  and  en- 
trancing manner,  and  then  to  come  to  ask  a  poor  wight  of  a  painting 
chap  who  is  daubing  away  for  dear  bread  and  butter,  whether  he  thinks 
your  new  frock  is  as  nice  as  the  lilac  was?" 

"MuflBn's  mauve — ^"  said  Miss  Perry. 

•  "Answer  me,"  said  Jim  sternly.  ^TTou  can't.  You  are  a  sorceress. 
You  are  a  weaver  of  spells.  Well,  it  so  happens  that  I  am  susceptible  to 
them.  I  am  going  to  take  a  decisive  step.  Goose  Girl,  it  is  my  intention 
to  kiss  you." 

Without  further  preface  or  ado  Jim  Lascelles  stepped  toward  Miss 
Perry  with  extended  arms  and  eyes  of  menace.  He  hugged  her  literally, 
new  frock  and  all,  in  the  open  light  of  the  morning;  and  further  he  gave 
her  one  of  the  most  resounding  busses  that  was  ever  heard  in  that  digni- 
fied apartment. 

"Get  rid  of  that  if  you  are  able,"  said  he  brazenly.  "And  now  sit 
there  as  good  as  pie  while  I  put  that  new  gown  upon  canvas." 

Miss  Perry  did  as  she  was  told  in  a  manner  that  rather  implied  that 
she  approved  decidedly  of  the  whole  proceedings. 

"Goose  Girl,"  said  Jim,  attacking  the  canvas,  "you  will  either  make 
me  or  mar  me.  Sometimes  I  feel  it  might  be  the  former,  but  more  often 
I  am  convinced  it  will  be  the  latter." 



'^MnflSn's  mauve  cost  a  lot  of  money,"  said  Miss  Perry. 

'Taws  down,"  said  Jim.  'The  question  now  for  gods  and  men  is. 
Can  that  hair  and  that  frock  live  together?" 

Jim  took  up  a  little  looking-glass  and  turned  his  back  upon  the  can- 
vas.   He  sighed  with  relief. 

'TTes,  they  can  by  a  miracle,"  said  he.  "And  yet  they  out-Gillet 

''What  will  you  be  to-night,  Jim?"  asked  Miss  Perry. 

"Achilles,"  said  Jim,  "sulking  in  my  tent." 

"Where  will  you  put  your  tent?"  said  Miss  Perry.  "One  can't  dance 
in  a  tent.    And  what  will  you  do  when  you  are  sulky?" 

"Gnash  my  teeth,"  said  Jim,  "and  curse  my  luck." 

"I  will  dance  with  you  twice  if  you  would  like  me  to,"  said  Miss  Perry 
with  charming  friendliness. 

"I  shall  not  be  there,"  said  Jim,  whose  studied  unconcern  was  rather 
a  failure. 

"Not  be  there  1"  said  Miss  Perry  with  consternation. 

"Aunt  Caroline  has  not  axed  me,"  said  Jim. 

It  was  some  kind  of  solace  to  Jim  Lascelles  that  dismay  and  incre- 
dulity contended  upon  the  usually  calm  and  unruffled  countenance  of  Miss 

"Miss  Burden  has  forgotten  you,"  said  she.    "I  must  speak  to  her." 

Miss  Perry  rose  for  that  purpose. 

"Sit  down,  you  Goose,"  Jim  commanded  her.  "Don't  speak  a  word 
about  it  to  anybody,  unless  you  want  to  get  me  sacked  from  the  house. 
I  am  here  on  sufferance,  a  poor  painting  chap  copying  a  picture  to  get 
bread  and  cheese;  and  this  ball  to-night  is  being  given  by  the  Coimtess  of 
Crewkeme  for  her  niece.  Miss  Perry." 

"But,  Jim " 

"(loose  Girl,"  said  Jim,  "keep  Mouth  Piece  immovable.  Move  not 
the  Chin  Piece,  the  Young  Man  said.    Think  of  cream  buns." 

"But,  Jim—"  said  Miss  Perry. 



All  the  same  Miss  Perry  did  not  dance  twice  with  Jim  Lascelles  that 
evening.  For  Jim  took  his  mother  to  a  theatre  at  Brixton,  to  witness  a 
performance  of  that  excellent  old-world  comedy.  She  Stoops  to  Con- 


He  did  not  appear  to  enjoy  it  much.  He  hardly  laughed  once  and 
his  mother  remarked  it. 

^'What  is  the  matter,  laddie?''  said  she.  It  ought  to  he  stated  that 
Jim's  mother  was  absurdly  young  to  be  the  mother  of  a  great  hulking 
fellow  like  Jim. 

'T?here  is  a  great  overgrown  girl  ia  my  head/'  said  he,  "who  is  above 
me  in  station.*' 

*Tliat  Goose,"  said  Jim's  mother,  a  little  contemptuously  it  is  to  be 

"Si,  Signora,"  said  Jim.    "She  is  turning  my  brain  rather  badly." 

iNTot  unnaturally  Jim's  mother  was  amused  that  Jim  should  be  so 

*T;f  only  I  had  enough  money  to  buy  back  the  Bed  House  at  Widdi- 
f  ord,"  sighed  Jim,  '*!  believe  I  could  cut  out  them  all." 

"She  was  never  able  to  resist  the  orchard,  and  the  south  wall,  and  the 
strawberry  beds,"  Mrs.  Lascelles  agreed. 

'*!  never  saw  such  a  creature,"  said  Jim.  "Those  Gainsborough 
frocks  and  those  runcible  hats  are  maddening." 

^TV^ell,  laddie,"  said  Jim's  mother,  "you  must  paint  her  and  make  her 
and  yourself  famous." 

"She  is  famous  already,"  said  Jim.  'TV^orse  luck.  She  is  a  nine 
days'  wonder  in  Mayf  air  and  certain  to  marry  a  duke." 

"That  Goose  1"  said  Jim's  mother. 

^TTes,"  said  Jim,  "it  sounds  ridiculous,  but  it  is  perfectly  true." 

^'Well,  laddie,"  said  Jim's  mother,  who  believed  profoundly  in  Jim, 
"just  paint  her  and  see  what  comes  of  it." 

While  Jim  Lascelles  lay  that  night  with  his  head  on  his  arm,  dreaming 
of  the  Goose  Girl,  high  revel  was  held  at  the  house  of  Caroline  Crewkeme 
in  Hill  Street,  W.  All  ages  and  both  sexes  were  gathered  in  the  garb  of 
their  ancestors  in  the  spacious  suite  of  rooms  on  the  second  floor.  From 
the  moment  that  the  first  seductive  strains  were  put  forth  by  Herr 
Blaum's  Green  Viennese  Band,  and  his  Excellency  the  Illyrian  Ambassa- 
dor in  the  guise  of  Henri  Quatre,  or  the  Duke  of  Buckingham — ^nobody 
was  quite  sure  which — accompanied  by  Diana  of  Ephesus,  a  bread  and 
butter  miss,  who  looked  much  too  young  to  be  a  duchess,  went  up  the 
carpetiess  blue  drawing-room,  which  seemed  at  least  three  times  the  size 
it  did  on  ordinary  occasions,  as  indeed  was  the  case,  there  was  no  doubt 
that  Caroline  Crewkeme  was  going  to  have  a  great  success. 

It  is  not  easy  to  know  whether  Bed  Cross  Knights,  Cardinal  Biche- 
lieus,  Catherines  de  Medici,  and  those  kinds  of  people  are  susceptible  of 
thrills,  but  there  was  one  unmistakably  when  George  Betterton  in  the 


character  of  a  Gentleinan  of  the  Georgian  Era  took  the  floor  with  Ara- 
minta^  Duchess  of  Dorset^  by  Gainsborough,  upon  his  arm. 

The  less  responsible  spirits  directed  their  gaze  to  Charles  II.  He  was 
engaged  in  amiable  converse  with  his  hostess,  who  habited  in  an  Indian 
shawl>  the  gift  of  her  sovereign,  and  a  jewelled  turban  presented  to  her 
by  the  Shah  of  Persia  during  his  last  visit  to  this  country,  together  with 
the  insignia  of  the  Spotted  Parrot  duly  displayed  round  her  neck,  made 
in  the  opinion  of  many  a  very  tolerable  representation  of  a  Heathen 
Deity.  As  a  Gentleman  of  the  Georgian  Era  and  Araminta,  Duchess  of 
Dorset,  by  Gainsborough,  came  down  the  room  in  a  somewhat  inharmoni- 
ous manner,  owing  to  the  decidedly  original  ideas  of  the  form^  in  regard 
to  the  art  he  was  practising,  the  amiable  and  agreeably  cultivated  voice  of 
Charles  II  soared  easily  above  the  strains  of  the  waltz  and  the  frou 
frou  of  the  dancers. 

'TTes,''  said  that  monarch,  "the  Georgian  Era  is  suflSciently  obvious, 
but  can  anybody  tell  me  what  has  happened  to  the  Gentleman?'' 

The  Georgian  Era  went  its  victorious  way,  however,  gobbling  de- 
cidedly, perspiring  freely,  holding  Gkdnsborough's  Duchess  in  a  grip  of 
iron,  and  slowly  but  surely  trampling  down  all  opposition  with  the  greatest 
determination.  When  with  coxcomb  ensanguined,  but  with  a  solemn 
gobble  of  triumph,  he  came  back  whence  he  started,  a  slight  but  well-de- 
fined murmur  of  applause  was  to  be  heard  on  every  hand. 

"Georgian  Era  wins  in  a  canter,"  one  of  the  knowing  fraternity  could 
be  heard  to  proclaim,    ^^vens,  Gobo  against  the  field." 

^^uchess,"  said  the  Georgian  Era  with  a  bow  to  his  fair  partner,  who 
looked  as  cool  as  a  cucumber,  "you  deserve  an  ice." 

'TTcs,"  said  Araminta,  Duchess  of  Dorset,  with  grave  alacrity,  "a  pink 
one,  please." 

'TSad  form,"  said  the  Second  Charles,  "decidedly  a  breach  of  man- 
ners to  address  her  as  duchess  in  the  circumstances.  But  what  can  one 
expect  of  the  Georgian  Era  1" 

The  Merry  Monarch  with  the  unmistakable  air  of  the  master  of  the 
ceremonies,  as  indeed  he  was,  proceeded  to  lead  out  Katharine  of  Aragon, 
who  was  seen  to  great  advantage,  such  was  her  natural  distinction,  and 
who  was  that  ill-fated  queen  to  the  manner  bom. 

'*Humph,"  said  the  Heathen  Deity,  "for  a  bom  fool  she  dances  very 

The  Second  Charles  danced  like  a  rather  elderly  angel  with  wings. 

The  young  people  also  were  enjoying  themselves.  Eligible  young  men, 
and  not  a  single  one  of  the  other  kind  had  gained  admittance,  had  each 
his  dance  with  the  fair  Araminta,  or  the  fair  Daphne,  or  the  fair  Evadne, 


or  the  fair  Sweet  Ndl  of  Old  Drury.  Of  course,  Gainsborough's  master- 
piece really  brooked  no  rival,  except  the  great  canvas  in  the  left-hand 
corner,  which  in  the  full  glare  of  the  electric  lights  seemed  to  do  her 
best  to  dispute  the  supremacy  of  her  youthful  descendant. 

^'Yellow  hair  knocks  spots  ofE  the  auburn,''  said  an  Eldest  Son  to  the 
Lynx-Eyed  Dowager  to  whose  apron  he  was  very  carefully  tied. 

"A  matter  of  taste,"  was  the  rejoinder.  ^TTellow  is  never  a  safe  color, 
and  it  is  well  known  that  it  means  doubtful  antecedents.  They  are  be- 
ginning the  lancers.    Go,  Pet,  and  find  Mary." 

Pet,  who  was  six  feet  five,  and  had  leave  from  Knightbridge  Barracks 
imtil  five  A.U.,  claimed  the  Watteau  Shepherdess,  a  real  little  piece  of 
Dresden  China,  who  had  f oriy-six  thousand  in  land,  and  thirty-six  thou- 
sand in  consols,  and  would  have  more  when  Uncle  William  permanently 
retired  from  the  cavalry;  and  who  was  perfectly  willing  to  marry  Pet,  or 
any  one  else,  if  her  mamma  only  gave  her  permission  to  do  so. 

Charles  II  sat  out  the  supper  dance  with  the  fair  Araminta. 

^^Miss  Goose,"  said  that  sagacious  monarch,  ^'never  dance  the  dance 
before  supper  if  you  can  possibly  avoid  it.  You  will  live  longer,  you 
will  be  able  to  do  ampler  justice  to  whatever  fare  may  be  forthcoming, 
you  will  also  be  able  to  get  in  before  the  squash,  and  if  the  quails  run 
short,  as  is  sometimes  the  case,  it  won't  matter  so  much  as  it  otherwise 
might  do." 

As  far  as  the  Merry  Monarch  was  concerned,  however,  the  precautions 
against  the  squash  and  the  possibility  of  the  quails  running  short  were 
wholly  superfluous.  The  pleasantest  corner  of  the  best  situated  table  had 
been  reserved  for  him  hours  before,  and  all  his  favorite  delicacies  had  been 
duly  earmarked. 

"Miss  Goose,"  said  the  Merry  Monarch,  "have  you  had  an  ice  yet  ?" 

*T;  have  had  seven/^  said  Araminta,  Duchess  of  Dorset. 

"Ptni;  ones?"  asked  the  Second  Charles. 

"Five  were  pink,"  said  the  Duchess,  "one  was  yellow  and  one  was 
green.    But  I  think  that  pink  ones  are  almost  the  nicest." 

"I  concur,"  said  the  Second  Charles. 

After  supper,  before  dancing  was  resumed,  some  incautious  person, 
after  gazing  upon  Gainsborough's  masterpiece  and  subjecting  it  to  some 
admiring  if  unlearned  remarks,  pulled  aside  the  crimson  curtain  which 
hid  from  view  Jim  Lascelles's  half  finished  copy. 

"Oho,"  said  the  incautious  one  in  a  loud  voice,  "what  have  we  here ! 
To  be  sure  a  Sargent  in  the  making.  Only  Sargent  could  paint  that 

The  attention  of  others  was  attracted. 

172  ^™^  FOKUM 

^'I  should  say  it  is  a  Whistler/'  said  a  second  critic. 

'^A  Sargent  decidedly/'  said  a  third.    *'Only  he  could  paint  that  hair.'' 

"It  is  high  art,  I  daresay/'  said  a  fourth,  '1)ut  isn't  it  rather  extrava- 
gant ?" 

**!£  Gillet  were  in  London,"  said  critic  the  fifth,  who  had  more  in- 
struction than  the  others,  "I  should  say  it  was  Gillet.  As  he  is  not,  it 
might  be  described  as  the  work  of  a  not  unskilful  imitator." 

Andover  stood  listening. 

^^t  is  the  work  of  a  young  chap  named  Lascelles,"  said  he,  ''the 
coming  man,  I'm  told." 

Nobody  had  told  Andover  that  Jim  Lascelles  was  the  coming  man, 
and  not  for  a  moment  did  he  believe  that  he  was;  but  he  was  a  member  of 
that  useful  and  considerable  body  which  derives  a  kind  of  factitious  im- 
portance from  the  making  of  imposing  statements.  He  felt  that  it  re- 
acted upon  his  own  status  to  announce  that  a  young  chap  named  Lascelles 
was  the  coming  man,  when  not  a  soul  had  heard  of  the  young  chap  in 

'1  must  remember  the  name,"  said  a  broad-jowled  marquis 
from  Yorkshire,  who  had  come  up  in  time  to  hear  Andover's  stat- 
ement, and  who  greatly  preferred  to  accept  the  judgment  of  others  in 
the  fine  arts  rather  than  exercise  his  own.  "I  should  like  him  to  paint 

''The  very  man  to  paint  Priscilla,"  said  Andover  with  conviction. 
And  this,  be  it  written  to  Andover's  credit,  was  genuine  good  nature. 

"What  is  the  subject?"  said  the  first  critic. 

"Why,  can't  you  seel"  said  a  chorus.  "It  is  Caroline  Crewkeme's 

"Which  of  'em?" 

"The  yellow-haired  one,  of  course." 

Andover  screwed  his  glass  in  his  eye.  He  had  been  the  first  to  detect 
that  the  color  of  the  hair  was  yellow,  and  yet  for  some  strange  reason  the 
solution  of  the  mystery  had  not  until  that  moment  presented  itself  to  him. 

"What  damned  impertinence  1"  said  he. 

"Anybody  been  treading  on  your  corns,  Andover?"  asked  several  per- 

"Not  exactly,"  said  Andover.  "But  do  you  know  I  commissioned 
that  fellow  Lascelles  to  make  a  copy  of  Araminta,  Duchess  of  Dorset,  for 
Andover  House." 

"And  he  copies  the  wrong  Araminta!"  came  a  shout  of  laughter. 
There  was  really  no  need  to  shout,  but  immediately  after  supper  that  is 
the  sort  of  thing  that  happens  sometimes.    "A  good  judge,  too." 


^'Gross  impertinence,"  said  Andover.  "I  think  I  shall  be  quite  justi- 
fied in  repudiating  the  whole  transaction." 

"Quite,  Andover,"  said  the  marquis  with  a  very  obvious  wink  at  the 
company  and  preparing  to  jest  in  the  somewhat  formidable  Yorkshire 
manner.  "But  it  is  easily  explained.  Young  fellow  got  a  little  mixed 
between  Gainsborough's  Araminta,  Duchess  of  Dorset,  and  Nature's  Ara- 
minta,  Duchess  of  Lancaster.    Very  natural  mistake,  what  ?" 

The  arrival  upon  the  scene  of  the  Georgian  Era  and  the  Heathen 
Deity,  the  latter  walking  quite  nimbly  with  very  littie  aid  from  her 
stick,  set  the  circle  of  art  critics  in  further  uproar. 

^*Who  pulled  aside  the  curtain  ?"  demanded  the  mistress  of  the  house. 
"Andover,  I  suspect  you." 

"It  is  my  picture,  anyhow,"  said  Andover  coolly,  although  he  felt  the 
game  was  rather  going  against  him. 

"It  is  not  at  all  clear  to  my  mind  that  it  is  your  picture,"  said  the 
sharp-witted  Caroline  to  the  delight  of  everybody.  ^TTou  send  a  man  to 
copy  my  Gainsborough,  and  he  copies  my  niece." 

"A  very  natural  error,"  said  the  marquis,  "as  we  have  just  explained 
to  Andover." 

The  Georgian  Era  was  seen  to  grow  uneasy.  He  began  to  fumble  in 
his  Georgian  costume.  Obviously,  he  was  not  quite  sure  where  the  pockets 
were.  At  last,  however,  he  was  able  to  produce  a  pair  of  spectacles  which 
he  proceeded  to  adjust. 

'^ery  good  likeness,"  said  he  heavily.  "Caroline,  when  the  picture  is 
finished,  I  should  like  to  purchase  it  for  the  Cheadle  Collection." 

A  salvo  of  laughter  greeted  this  speech,  but  to  laughter  the  speaker 
was  constitutionally  oblivious. 

"The  picture  is  not  Caroline's,  my  dear  George,"  said  Andover.  '*The 
young  fellow  is  painting  it  on  my  commission." 

"Excellent  likeness,"  said  George  tenaciously.  "I  shall  make  you  a 
fair  offer,  Andover,  for  the  Cheadle  Collection." 

^T.  am  sorry,  my  dear  George,  for  the  sake  of  the  Cheadle  Collection," 
said  Andover  amiably,  'T)ut  that  picture  is  not  for  sale." 

^TTou  are  quite  right,  Andover,"  said  Caroline  Crewkeme,  "the  pic- 
ture is  not  for  sale.  I  gave  permission  for  a  copy  to  be  made  of  my 
Gainsborough,  not  of  my  niece." 

"It  appears  to  be  a  question  of  copyright,"  said  a  wit. 

'T[  hold  the  copyright  in  both  at  present,"  said  Caroline  in  an  exceed- 
ingly grim  manner. 

The  strains  of  the  dance  began  to  float  through  the  room.  The 
yoimger  section  of  the  company  had  again  taken  their  partners;  a  brace 

174  '^^^  VOBXJU 

of  rojalties  had  arriTed,  yet  in  spite  of  that  jest  and  connter-jest  were  in 
the  air. 

^Andorer  was  never  in  it  from  the  Btart,"  said  the  maiqaiSy  ^  yon 
want  my  candid  opinion." 

The  Inckier  he/*  said  the  first  critic.  ''What  does  any  man  want  with 
a  girl  who  hasn't  a  son,  a  conntiy  parson's  danghter?" 

Wealthy,  I  should  say^''  said  critic  the  second.  ''Comes  of  a  Teiy 
good  stock  on  the  mother's  side/' 

'TTc-cs/' said  a  third.    'TJsefnl/' 

''Finest  looking  girl  in  England/'  said  a  fourth. 

"They  can  both  afford  to  marry  her/'  said  the  marquis,  "and  I  will 
lay  the  odds  that  the  better  man  of  the  two  does." 

"AndoTer  gets  her  in  that  case." 

"Qobo  for  a  monkey." 

All  the  time,  however,  in  Another  Place,  the  Master  of  the  Bevels — 
but  after  all,  that  is  no  concern  of  ours. 

{To  he  continued) 



WiiBTHEB  a  marigold  or  this  our  love. 

There  is  no  origin  of  things  that  are 

But  aims  its  orbit  at  a  final  star. 

From  dust  of  marigolds  a  wedding-ring 

May  form,  or  golden  spheres  may  sing; 

And  so,  though  sundered  by  the  sea  and  land. 

Or  stopped  by  the  unalterable  bar. 

We  still  unsundered  and  unstopped  shall  move 

And  carry  out  the  orbit  hand  in  hand. 

Witter  Bynner. 



The  latest  contribution  to  the  valuable  English  Men  of  Letters  Series 
is  a  monograph  on  the  poet  William  Morris  by  the  poet  Alfred  Noyes. 
As  a  revelation  of  the  poetic  mind  the  book  is  disappointing,  for  the  rea- 
son that,  although  it  contains  quite  a  deal  of  Morris,  it  contains  scarcely 
any  of  Noyes.  This  is  not  due  solely  to  a  deliberate  and  tactful  reticence 
on  the  part  of  the  yoimg  poet  in  the  presence  of  an  elder;  it  is  due  rather 
to  a  lack  of  emotional  sympathy  between  the  poet  who  is  writing  and  the 
poet  he  is  writing  about.  After  reading  the  volume,  one  is  inclined  to 
regret  that  Mr.  Noyes  was  not  allowed  to  write  about  Tennyson  instead, 
and  that  Morris  was  not  assigned  to  some  other  biographer.  Concerning 
Morris  Mr.  Noyes  speaks  with  a  certain  cold  justness  and  conscientious 
fairness:  he  praises  him  highly,  but  without  eagerness;  he  estimates  him 
truthfully,  but  without  enjoyment.  Every  now  and  then,  for  purposes  of 
comparison,  Mr.  Noyes  introduces  a  quotation  from  Tennyson;  and  no 
sooner  has  he  transcribed  the  lines  than  his  mind  kindles  with  a  sudden 
glow  which  illuminates  an  entire  page  of  appreciation  of  the  Laureate, 
during  which,  of  course,  the  author  quite  forgets  that  he  is  really  writing 
about  "the  idle  singer  of  an  empty  day.^*  The  reason  why  the  best  pas- 
sages in  this  critical  biography  of  Morris  are  the  passages  that  deal  with 
Tennyson  is  that  only  in  the  latter  has  Mr.  Noyes  so  far  forgotten  him- 
self as  to  reveal  himself.  The  eagerness,  the  glow,  the  spirit,  and  the 
zest  of  which  Mr.  Noyes  has  given  beautiful  expression  in,  his  own  poems 
are  nowhere  else  apparent  in  the  present  critical  study.  Elsewhere  we 
feel  a  rather  laborious  restraint, — the  pallor  of  a  glowing  mind  in  the 
presence  of  an  uncongenial  subject.  The  trouble  was  not  that  Mr.  Noyes 
was  lacking  in  critical  appreciation,  but  that  William  Morris  was  not 
his  man.  One  might  have  judged  this  in  advance  from  reading  Mr. 
Noyes^s  poems,  in  which,  while  the  influence  of  Tennyson  is  ever  domi- 
nant, it  is  possible  to  discern  traces  of  sympathy  with  Mr.  Swinburne  and 
Bossetti,  Keats  and  Blake,  but  in  which  it  is  impossible  to  discern  any 
echo  whatever  of  Morris. 

Prom  this  lack  of  sympathy  between  the  writer  and  his  subject 

^WiUiam  Morris,    By  Alfred  Noyes.     English  Men  of  Letters,    New  York: 
The  Macmillan  Company. 

X76  '^^^^  FOBUM 

ariflee^  coriously,  the  most  meritorious  feature  of  Mr.  NoyeB'B  study,  as 
well  as  its  preponderant  defects.  This  feature  is  the  techniffll  criticism  of 
Morris's  narrative  verse.  Mr.  Noyes  shows  that  Morris's  style  of  writing 
has  no  place  whatever  in  the  historical  evolution  of  English  verse^ — ^that, 
in  the  technical  sense^  it  is  not  Victorian  Knglish  verse  at  alL  Gonoem- 
ing  this  point  he  says: 

Of  the  principles  of  elision  and  syllabic  equivalence,  and  the  advantages  not 
only  of  sound  and  movement,  but  of  compression,  conciseness,  and  brevity  to  be 
derived  therefrom,  Morris  was  quite  careless.  Very  often  his  lines  appear  to  be 
a  mere  succession  of  monosyllabic  prepositions  and  pronouns.  .  .  •  His  lines 
are  thin  threads,  he  cares  not  how  thin.  Tennyson  might  compress  twenty  or 
more  syllables  into  a  pentameter:  Morris  very  rarely  exceeds  the  ten,  and  very 
thin  ones  at  that.  He  often  seems  in  this  regard  to  be  deliberately  aiming  at  an 
idea  directly  opposite  to  that  of  all  the  other  poets,  and  to  be  deliberately  drawing 
out  his  lines  to  their  utmost  tenuity.  .  .  .  Their  tenuity  or  lack  of  syllabic 
weight  leads,  or  should  lead,  the  reader  to  render  them  syllable  by  syllable,  with 
something  of  the  slowness  of  a  child  spelling  them  out. 

This  sort  of  technical  criticism  is  all  the  more  valuable  because  it  is  made 
by  a  poet  who  has  reared  himself  in  the  more  traditional  school.  In  fact, 
throughout  the  book^  the  technical  points  are  all  well  taken, — ^though  one 
may  be  inclined,  perhaps,  to  disagree  with  the  high  estimate  with  which 
the  writer  regards  the  hexameters  of  Sigurd  the  VoUung. 

The  book  is  insufficient,  not  in  its  criticism  of  Morris  the  writer  of 
verse,  but  in  its  revelation  of  Morris  the  man.  It  is  less  successful  in  its 
narrative  than  in  its  expository  passages.  Many  things  are  told  about 
Morris;  but  the  man  himself  is  not  set  living  before  the  reader's  mind. 
One  of  the  main  purposes  of  biography  is  to  recreate  personality, — ^to  tell 
not  so  much  what  a  man  did  as  who  he  was;  and  personality  is  the  main 
thing  that  is  lacking  in  Mr.  Noyes's  volume.  It  is  a  record  instead  of 
being  a  history. 

The  truth  about  Morris  seems  to  be  that  he  was  a  veiy  simple  man 
who  had  the  misfortune  to  be  bom  in  a  very  complex  age.  With  him 
simplicity  was  synonymous  with  beauty,  and  complexity  with  ugliness. 
His  nature  demanded  simplicity  and  beauty  as  the  very  breath  of  life. 
Since  be  could  not  find  them  in  the  world  about  him,  he  dwelt  instinctively 
in  an  imagined  world  of  his  own  creation.  This  world,  because  of  a  love 
which  he  developed  at  an  early  age  for  many  of  the  mediaeval  arts,  be- 
came at  first  a  fabled  middles-ages.  His  manifold  activities  were  all  at- 
tempts to  tell  to  others  the  aspect  of  the  world  he  lived  in.  His  poetry, 
his  decoration,  his  many-sided  craftsmanship,  were  all  expressions  of  the 
same  simple  sincerity  of  spirit,  abhorrent  of  extravagance  and  display. 
Later  in  his  life,  he  began  to  wonder  if  his  dream-world  might  not  be 


made  actual  as  well  as  real.  Hence  his  recourse  to  socialism, — which, 
however  insignificant  it  may  seem  when  looked  at  in  the  light  of  practical 
politics,  is  exceedingly  important  when  considered  as  a  revelation  of  the 
poet^s  yearning  for  an  earthly  paradise.  Later  still,  when  Morris  saw 
that  socialism  was  incapable  of  practical  fulfilment,  he  took  refuge  in  an 
impossible  Utopia, — out  of  Space,  out  of  Time, — ^the  dream-worid  of  the 
later  prose  romances.  No  poet  ever  understood  himself  better  than  he ;  and 
the  truest  word  about  him  is  said  in  his  own  prologue  to  The  Earthly  Para- 
dise,— ^that  monumental  work  wherein  he  strove  ''to  build  a  shadowy  isle 
of  bliss  midmost  the  beating  of  the  steely  sea,  where  tossed  about  all 
hearts  of  men  must  be.*'  It  is  fitting  that  any  consideration  of  William 
Morris,  however  cursory  and  brief,  should  close  with  these  self -revealing 

The  heavy  trouble,  the  bewildering  care 

That  weighs  us  down  who  live  and  earn  our  bread. 

These  idle  verses  have  no  power  to  bear; 

So  let  me  sing  of  names  remembered, 

Because  they,  living  not,  can  ne'er  be  dead. 

Or  long  time  take  their  memory  quite  away 

From  us  poor  singers  of  an  empty  day. 

Dreamer  of  dreams,  bom  out  of  my  due  time. 
Why  should  I  strive  to  set  the  crooked  straight? 

Let  it  suffice  me  that  my  murmuring  rhyme 
Beats  with  light  wing  against  the  ivory  gate, 

Telling  a  tale  not  too  importunate 

To  those  who  in  the  sleepy  region  stay. 

Lulled  by  the  singer  of  an  empty  day. 

Walter  Clayton. 


Certainly  since  Mr.  Kipling  wrote  Stalky  and  Company  no  book 
dealing  with  school  life  has  appeared  of  as  much  significance  as  Mr.  Owen 
Johnson^s  The  Eternal  Boy.  And  in  writing  this  the  reviewer  is  not 
forgetting  Mr.  Horace  Vachell's  The  Hill,  that  very  charming,  although 
rather  lugubrious,  story  of  life  at  Harrow.  Indeed,  from  an  American 
point  of  view.  The  Eternal  Boy  may  be  regarded  as  striking  an  entirely 
new  note.  Now  and  again  there  is  a  furtive  glimpse  of  heartache  and 
tragedy,  but  the  dominant  tone  is  one  of  rollicking  humor.  Keal  humor 
in  stories  of  school  life  is  rare.    Stalky  and  Company  contained  humor 

^The  Eternal  Boy.  Being  the  Story  of  the  Prodigious  Hickey.  By  Owen 
Johnson.    New  York:    Dodd,  Mead  and  Company. 

1Y8  ^™^  FOKUM 

of  a  Kipliiigesque  sort,  but  it  was  so  essentially  British  that  it  oonld 
never  appeal  strongly  to  American  readers.  In  Tom  Brown  at  Rugby 
there  are  unquestionably  droll  passages,  but  the  whole  book  (justly  one 
of  the  first  chapters  in  the  code  of  life)  leaves  the  impression  of  a  grim 
though  kindly  sermon.  Deep  as  is  Mr.  Vachell's  love  as  an  old  Harrovian 
for  the  "school  on  the  hilF'  he  cannot  quite  expunge  the  memory  of 
certain  evils  and  brutalities  which  have  always  been  features  of  British 
public  school  life.  Consequently,  into  the  most  reverent  of  his  pages 
there  creeps  an  occasional  suggestion  of  cynical  bitterness. 

But  from  Mr.  Johnson's  book  this  indescribable  gloom  is  absent.  The 
American  schoolboy,  at  heart,  may  be  much  the  same  as  his  English 
cousin;  there  may  be  injustice  and  evil  at  Andover,  and  Exeter,  and 
Lawrenceville,  and  St.  Paul's,  and  Groton,  just  as  there  are  at  Eton,  and 
Rugby,  and  Harrow;  Mr.  Johnson  not  only  ignores  the  sinister  side,  but 
seems  to  have  succeeded  in  his  intention  of  forgetting  it  entirely.  His 
schoolboy  is  far  from  being  the  most  earnest  or  conscientious  of  creatures. 
His  mind  is  not  occupied  with  thoughts  of  his  duty  to  his  parents  and  his 
masters,  but  to  the  gridiron  and  the  diamond,  to  the  pleasures  of  plotting, 
and  the  joys  of  the  "Jigger  Shop."  In  the  chapter  entitled  '*Mr.  Bald- 
win's Political  Education,"  an  old  master  gives  some  sound  advice  to  a 
new  master  with  theories. 

When  you've  lived  with  the  young,  human  animal  as  long  as  I  have,  you 
won't  have  any  illusions.  He  doesn't  want  to  be  enlightened.  He  hasn't  the  slight- 
est desire  to  be  educated.  He  isn't  educated.  He  never  will  foe.  His  memory 
simply  retains  for  a  short  while,  a  larger  and  larger  number  of  facts — ^Latin, 
Greek,  history,  mathematics,  it's  all  the  same — ^facts,  nothing  but  facts.  He  re- 
members when  he  is  compelled  to,  but  he  is  supremely  bored  by  the  performance. 
All  he  wants  is  to  grow,  to  play  and  to  get  into  sufficient  mischief.  My  dear 
fellow,  treat  him  as  a  splendid  young  savage,  who  breaks  a  rule  for  the  joy  of 
matching  his  wits  against  yours,  and  don't  take  him  seriously,  as  you  are  in 
danger  of  doing.  Don't  let  him  take  you  seriously  or  he  will  lead  you  to  a 

Such,  in  a  nutshell,  is  the  American  boy  as  he  appears  in  these  annals. 

That  The  Eternal  Boy  happens  to  have  Lawrenceville  as  a  concrete 
backgroimd  is  of  no  particular  significance.  The  alumnus  of  Exeter  or 
Andover  may  read  in  his  own  school  just  as  well.  A  dozen  different 
stories  involving  twice  as  many  heroes  are  told  in  the  course  of  the 
chronicle.  Hungry  Smeed  breaks  the  great  pancake  record  for  the  honor 
of  Dickinson.  Smith  yearns  for  a  nickname  and  wins  it  in  a  strange  and 
unexpected  manner.  Snorky  Green,  in  a  fine  day  dream,  humiliates  the 
Princeton  Varsity  nine,  hurls  an  invading  (Jerman  army  into  the  Atlantic, 
becomes  the  greatest  of  Presidents,  sees  himself  struck  down  by  the  hand 


of  a  fanatic^  and  sheds  tears  in  sympathy  with  the  inconsolable  nation 
mourning  at  his  funeral  bier.  But  above  all  is  Hickey,  the  Prodigious 
Hiekey,  who  gives  cohesion  to  the  whole,  whose  dominant  personality 
welds  what  otherwise  might  be  a  series  of  adventures  into  a  concrete 
narrative.  From  first  to  last  Hickey's  hand,  like  that  of  an  amiable 
ApoUyon,  is  raised  against  the  reigning  powers.  Always  he  is  matching 
his  wits  against  theirs,  and  always  is  he  triumphant.  That  he  should  be 
suspected  rouses  in  his  breast  a  sense  of  injustice.  He  feels  himself  to 
be  an  object  of  persecution,  a  martyr,  and  his  protest  takes  the  form  of 
fresh  plots  of  gorgeous  ingenuity.  Verily,  unique  is  Hickey,  magnificent 
even  in  his  downfal]. 

If  one^s  outlook  upon  life  be  that  of  the  Prodigious  Hickey,  and 
Hungry  Smeed,  and  the  Gutter  Pup,  and  Lovely  Mead,  and  the  Tri- 
umphant Egg  Head,  and  those  other  heroes  of  Mr.  Johnson's  narrative — 
in  a  word,  the  outlook  of  an  American  schoolboy  somewhere  between  fifteen 
and  twenty  years  of  age — The  Eternal  Boy  will  be  read  for  its  action,  its 
fun,  its  sheer  gaiety  of  animal  spirits.  But  if  one  has  gone  beyond  that, 
''come  to  thirty  year,*'  let  us  say,  the  story's  greatest  charm  will  lie  in  its 
reminiscent  call.  The  grown-up  boy  will  laugh  just  as  heartily  oyer  the 
Napoleonic  exploits  of  the  Prodigious  One,  and  the  achievements  of  Old 
Ironsides  and  Goat  Phillips;  but  in  the  mirth  there  will  be  an  underlying 
note  of  sadness,  a  wistful  regret  for  that  first  youth  irrevocably  gone. 
There  will  perhaps  come  to  him  in  reading,  as  they  came  to  the  present 
writer,  those  beautifully  simple  and  sincere  lines  which  Thackeray  penned 
as  a  'Tinis"  to  Dr.  Birch  and  his  Young  Friends: 

Good  night.    I'd  say  the  griefs,  the  joys 
Just  hinted  in  this  mimio  page, 
The  triiunphs  and  defeats  of  boys. 
Are  but  repeated  in  our  age. 
Fd  say  your  woes  were  not  less  keen, 
Your  hopes  more  vain,  than  those  of  men. 
Your  pangs  or  pleasures  of  fifteen 
At  foriy-five  played  o'er  again. 

I'd  say  we  suffer  and  we  strive 
Not  more  nor  less  as  men  than  boys, 
With  grizzled  beards  at  forty-five 
As  erst  at  twelve  in  corduroys. 
And  if,  in  time  of  sacred  youth, 
We  learned  at  home  to  love  and  pray. 
Pray  heaven,  that  early  love  and  truth 
May  never  wholly  pass  away. 

Arthur  Bartlett  Maurice. 

180  THE  FOKUH 



On  the  qnestion  of  popular  jndgment  in  art  and  literatnre,  Mr.  Bus- 
kin has  said  very  nearly  the  ultimate  word  when  he  points  out  that  it  is 
illogical  to  expect  the  opinions  of  a  crowd  to  be  correct,  when  the  opin- 
ions of  each  individual  in  that  crowd  are  probably  wrong.  Black  is  not 
made  white  by  calling  it  so,  and  the  mere  fact  that  a  mob  of  a  thousand 
are  simultaneously  shouting  their  mistake  does  not  make  it  one  shade 
the  whiter  than  a  single  voice.  This  is  why,  when  an  author  of  real  ar- 
tistic worth  and  delicacy  of  style,  after  being  persistently  ignored  by 
the  general  public  suddenly  receives  the  popular  vote,  it  is  the  part  of 
wisdom  to  question  seriously  whether  his  later  work  has  not  fallen  away 
rather  seriously  from  his  earlier  standards.  And  this  is  precisely 
the  case  of  Mr.  W.  J.  Locke,  author  of  The  Morals  of  Marcus  Or- 
deyne.  The  Beloved  Vagabond,  and — ^the  anticlimax  is  his,  not  ours — 

Let  us  consider  briefly  just  what  Mr.  Locke  has  achieved,  how  he  has 
achieved  it,  what  he  stands  for  in  contemporary  fiction.  To  any  one 
asking  these  questions  two  years  ago,  the  answer  would  have  been  that 
Mr.  Locke  did  not  consider  himself  primarily  a  man  of  letters;  that  he 
was,  on  the  contrary,  known  to  the  world  chiefly  through  his  chosen  pro- 
fession and  more  especially  his  post  of  honor  as  Secretary  of  the  Boyal 
Institute  of  British  Architects;  and  that  his  novel-writing  was  mainly 
a  relaxation,  an  avenue  of  escape  from  the  daily  routine,  a  method  of  en- 
joying vicariously  a  certain  blythe  and  irresponsible  Bohemianism  which 
the  actual  conditions  of  his  own  life  and  environment  rendered  impossible 
at  first  hand.  One  feels,  through  all  those  whimsical,  inimitable,  often- 
times uneven  volumes  that  came  with  fair  regularity  once  a  year  from 
his  pen,  that  they  never  were  written  with  one  eye  looking  askance  at 
ihe  general  public,  seeking  anxiously  for  signs  of  approval.  On  the  con- 
trary, one  feels  that  it  never  occurred  to  Mr.  Locke  that  there  was  such 
a  thing  as  a  general  public;  that  he  took  no  heed  of  how  many  people 
bought  or  approved  hte  books;  that  he  wrote  primarily  to  please  himself 
— ^and  ibis,  by  the  way,  is  the  surest  way  of  pleasing  tiiose  readers  whose 
approval  is  worth  the  winning. 

Within  the  past  two  years,  however,  several  little  things  have  hap- 
pened whose  cumulative  force  would  not  unnaturally  tend  to  give  the 
vox  poptili  a  greater  semblance  of  divine  authority,  even  to  so  modest  and 

^8epiimu8.    By  W.  J.  Locke.    New  Tork:  The  John  Lane  Company. 


retiring  a  personage  as  the  author  of  The  Beloved  Vagabond.  In  the  first 
place,  the  experiment  of  building  a  play  from  The  Morals  of  Marcus  re- 
sulted in  a  very  big  London  success,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  at  the  time 
there  was  a  feud  between  the  actor-manager,  Mr.  Arthur  Bourchier  and 
the  dramatic  critics,  in  consequence  of  which  the  play  was  practically 
ignored  by  the  newspapers.  Then  came  the  American  production  of 
Marcus,  the  dramatization  of  what  is  easily  Mr.  Locke's  best  work. 
The  Beloved  Vagabond,  the  sudden  awakening  of  the  general  public  to 
the  idea  that  here  was  an  author  they  ought  to  know  something  about ; 
and  finally  the  serialization  in  one  of  our  magazines  of  big  circulation  of 
Mr.  Locke's  latest  novel,  Septimus.  There  is,  of  course,  an  immense  dif- 
ference between  the  modest  succis  d'estime  of  former  years  and  the  pres- 
ent flamboyant  trumpeting  with  its  awards  of  crowded  houses  and  a 
place  among  the  Six  Best  Selling  Books.  And  because  all  this  is  apt 
to  confuse  one's  sense  of  relative  values,  it  seems  worth  while  to  forget 
for  the  moment  all  these  misleading  factors  of  popular  success  and  to 
ask  calmly  and  judicially  what  Septimus  really  stands  for  in  the  literary 
development  of  Mr.  Locke.  The  question  is  all  the  more  necessary  be- 
cause of  the  large  proportion  of  American  readers  to  whom  his  name 
comes  for  the  first  time  as  the  author  of  Septimus;  a  large  proportion 
who  will  be  apt  to  measure  him  chiefly  by  Septimus,  and,  it  may  be 
added,  a  large  proportion  who  may  never  read  any  other  book  of  his 
than  Septimus. 

Frankly,  Mr.  Locke  deserves  a  better  fate  than  this.  Uneven  though 
his  work  confessedly  is,  at  his  best  he  deserves  a  rather  high  place  among 
the  writers  of  to-day.  His  deliciously  irresponsible  vagaries,  his  whimsi- 
cal tenderness,  his  audacious  disregard  of  the  conventions  of  story-writ- 
ing, and  not  less  than  these  his  undeniable  quality  of  style  entitle  him 
to  be  recognized  as  one  of  that  small  group  who  have  a  chance  to  outlive 
that  great  host  of  ephemeral  novelists  who  write  for  the  day  and  ho^r. 
He  is  not  a  master  of  fiction  in  the  sense  in  which  we  think  of  Maupas- 
sant and  Meredith  and  Henry  James — ^masters  equally  of  technique  and 
of  the  truth  of  life.  Mr.  Locke's  mastery  is  of  an  entirely  different  sort. 
His  power  lies  almost  wholly  in  the  personal  equation,  the  whimsical, 
extravagant,  ironical  conceptions  that  he  flings  before  us  often  in  defi- 
ance of  common  sense  and  the  laws  of  probability — ^now  and  then  almost 
crossing  the  borderline  of  caricature,  and  yet  kept  curiously  real  by  the 
very  genuine  and  whole-hearted  understanding  of  human  nature  that 
lies  behind  them. 

Accordingly,  it  is  not  surprising  that,  measured  by  his  plots,  Mr. 
Locke  would  always  be  rated  very  much  below  his  worth.    The  plot  in 

182  THE  FORUM 

itself  is  the  thing  about  which  he  evidently  cares  least;  a  mere  scaflEold- 
ing  on  which  to  erect  a  new  structure  of  flashing  epigrams,  diverting 
paradoxes,  absurdities  veiling  a  wise  philosophy  of  life.  But  a  thought- 
ful survey  of  his  books  in  the  order  of  production  shows  at  least  this: 
that  he  has  steadily  weaned  himself  away  from  his  first  tendencies  to- 
ward melodrama;  that  while  one  and  all  of  his  books  are  impossible  when 
measured  by  life's  actualities,  the  later  ones  have  grown  steadily  more 
deliciously,  refreshingly  impossible  with  less  and  less  of  the  rant- 
ing, bombastic,  Ouidaesque  tone  of  his  first  efforts.  Undoubtedly,  the 
process  of  development  culminated  in  The  Beloved  Vagabond.  If  Mr. 
Locke  is  ever  to  give  us  a  better  book,  or  even  as  good  a  book,  he  must 
do  so  by  giving  us  something  radically  different,  and  not  a  compound 
of  the  same  ingredients  mixed  according  to  the  same  recipe.  And  a 
mixing  of  the  same  old  ingredients,  as  we  shall  presently  see,  is  unfortu- 
hately  a  fair  description  of  the  way  in  which  he  has  compounded 

It  is  hardly  worth  while  to  go  back  to  all  his  earlier  volumes  in  order 
to  see  how  the  ground  plans  of  the  majority  of  them  are  simply  clever 
variations  on  one  and  the  same  air;  that  his  heroes  are  all  extravagantly, 
wilfully,  incredibly  quixotic;  that  they  almost  uniformly  blast  their 
prospects  in  life  through  some  preposterous  act  pf  self-sacrifice  for  the 
sake  of  some  woman  who  as  likely  as  not  neither  knows  nor  cares.  It 
will  be  enough  for  our  purpose  to  recall  quite  briefly  the  essentials  of  flie 
plot  of  The  Beloved  Vagabond.  In  that  book,  you  will  remember,  Ber- 
zelius  Nibbidard  Paragot  is  a  vagabond  and  exile,  because  he  has  taken 
upon  his  shoulders  the  sins  of  some  one  else,  some  one  closely  related  to 
the  woman  he  thought  he  loved,  the  woman  with  the  petits  pieds  si  adores. 
And  having  assumed  this  burden,  he  accepts  with  it  all  the  consequences 
it  entails;  the  necessity  of  playing  the  part  consistently  before  the  eyes 
of  the  world,  of  cutting  himself  off  from  all  the  old  associations  that  had 
formerly  made  up  the  joy  of  living;  and,  hardest  of  all,  silently  accepting 
the  scorn  of  the  woman  who  does  not  understand.  And  in  the  end,  he 
awakens  to  a  knowledge  that  all  the  weary  months  and  years  through 
which  he  has  been  mourning  for  his  lost  happiness,  a  better  and  finer 
and  more  genuine  joy  of  life  has  been  within  easy  arm's-length,  waiting 
for  him  to  reach  out  and  take  it.  This,  in  brief,  is  the  skdeton  structure 
of  The  Belovid  Vagabond.  And,  like  most  skeleton  structures,  it  is  of 
small  value  except  for  the  flesh  and  blood  that  it  serves  to  sustain.  For 
what  Berzelius  Nibbidard  Paragot  does  is  of  infinitely  less  importance 
than  what  Berzelius  Nibbidard  Paragot  is.  His  destiny  is  a  diverting 
story,  but  his  personality  is  an  abiding  joy. 


Now,  with  no  intention  of  being  unfair,  the  reviewer  who  attempts 
in  like  manner  to  epitomize  SepHmtis  finds  himself  compelled  by  truth 
to  do  it  very  mnch  after  this  fashion :  to  point  out  that  Septimus  Ajax 
Dix,  if  not  quite  a  vagabond  and  exile,  has  at  least  cut  himself  off  from 
his  old  routine  of  life  because  he  has  taken  upon  his  shoulders  the  sins 
of  some  one  else,  some  one  closely  related  to  the  woman  he  thinks  he 
loves.  And  having  assumed  this  burden,  he  accepts  with  it  all  the  con- 
sequences it  entails ;  the  necessity  of  playing  his  part  consistently,  before 
the  eyes  of  the  world,  the  necessity  of  cutting  himself  off  from  certain 
old  associations  that  had  once  made  up  the  joy  of  living;  and  hardest 
of  all,  silently  bearing  the  wondering  contempt  of  the  woman  for  whom 
he  has  sacrificed  himself,  and  who  is  incapable  of  understanding.  And 
in  the  end,  he  awakens  to  a  knowledge  that  the  weary  months  through 
which  he  has  bravely  played  his  part  have  really  been  a  blessing  in  dis- 
guise because  they  have  gradually  been  paving  the  way  to  a  better  and 
finer  and  more  genuine  joy  of  life  that  has  all  the  time  been  within 
arm's-length,  waiting  only  for  him  to  reach  out  and  take  it.  Somehow, 
there  is  a  familiar  ring  about  this.  It  almost  sounds  like  a  twice-told 
tale.  Of  course,  to  those  who  dissect  plots  with  the  elaborate  care  that 
a  geologist  gives  to  the  bones  of  a  pterodactyl,  it  may  seem  a  vastly  im- 
portant point  of  difference  that  the  sinful  relative  of  the  lady  aux  chers 
petiis  pieds  was  her  bankrupt  father,  while  in  the  case  of  the  woman 
whom  Septimus  Ajax  Dix  thought  he  loved  it  happened  to  be  a  frail  and 
erring  sister.  But  in  either  case,  the  articulation  of  the  joints,  the  action 
of  the  story,  moves  along  in  quite  the  same  fashion.  The  vital  difference 
lies  here:  that  in  The  Beloved  Vagabond  we  have  a  group  of  characters 
that  refuse  to  be  forgotten;  Asticot,  Blanquette  de  Veau,  the  Vagabond 
himself,  have  taken  their  places  among  those  permanent  friends  in  the 
world  of  fiction  without  whom  life  would  be  just  so  much  the  poorer. 
But  in  SeptimuSj  however  much  we  may  smile  at  the  time,  over  whimsi- 
calities of  speech  and  action,  there  is  not  a  character  for  whom  we  would 
feel  a  greater  desire  for  another  meeting  than  for  the  fellow-travellers 
whom  we  face  for  a  brief  ten  minutes  in  a  trolley  car.  Probably  if  we  did 
meet  them,  we  should  not  be  aware  of  it;  but  if  ever  we  should  meet 
Paragot,  striding  joyously  along  some  rural  by-way  of  Prance,  even 
though  he  be  no  longer  the  Vagabond  of  old,  but  Paragot,  the  reformed 
Benedict,  the  landed  proprietor,  the  father  of  a  family,  we  should  know 
him  on  the  instant  and  joyously  hail  him  by  name. 

And,  in  only  slightly  less  measure  this  is  also  true  of  The  Morals  of 
Marcus  Ordeyne,  Less  human  in  its  appeal,  depending  more  upon  little 
flashes  of  irony  than  on  the  whimsical  tenderness  that  is  Mr.  Locke's 

Ig4  "^^^  FORUM 

most  characteristic  note^  it  nereitlieless  leaves  an  impression  that  abides. 
There  is  in  it^  more  strongly  than  anywhere  else,  a  certain  flavor  that  is 
more  Gallic  than  British,  a  sparkle  that  one  most  seek  long  to  find  in 
any  other  English  novelist  of  to-day.  It  bears  well  the  test  of  a  second 
reading;  not  so  well,  to  be  sure,  as  The  Beloved  Vagabond,  bnt  certainly 
mnch  better  than  snch  volumes  as  A  White  Dove,  Idols  and  Derelicts, — 
and  emphatically  better  than  Septimus. 

And  the  reason?  Well,  no  one,  not  even  the  anthor  himself,  can  ex- 
plain why  one  book  has  in  it  the  spark  of  genins  and  another  has  not. 
Bnt  this  at  least  can  be  said  without  fear  of  contradiction :  that  Septimus 
is  curiously  well  adapted  for  the  purposes  of  a  popular  serial,  and  that 
none  of  Mr.  Locke's  earlier  volumes  would  have  been  nearly  so  well 
suited  to  this  purpose.  And  secondly,  that  if  for  the  sake  of  argument 
we  should  assume  that  Mr.  Locke  had  set  himself  to  study  over  aU  of 
his  other  books;  to  select  from  them  such  incidents  and  situations,  such 
epigrams  and  paradoxes  as  had  apparently  caught  the  popular  vote;  and 
then  with  deliberate  intention  had  built  up  a  story  that  should  embody 
all  of  these  popular  qualities,  we  might  have  expected  the  resulting  vol- 
ume to  be  something  not  greatly  unlike  Septimus,  Not  that  Septimus 
is  undeserving  of  its  popularity.  On  the  contrary,  it  is  exactly  the  sort 
of  book  of  which  the  crowd — ^Mr.  Buskin's  crowd — ^might  be  expected  to 
approve.  And  in  fairness,  let  it  be  conceded  that  the  book  is  not  un- 
worthy of  a  place  among  Mr.  Locke's  writings.  It  is  even  better  than 
some  of  his  very  early  productions.  But  the  present  tendency  is  to  pro- 
claim it  as  a  sort  of  masterpiece,  a  crowning  glory  around  the  pinnacle 
of  his  recently  achieved  fame.  A  good  many  people  of  fair  average  intelli- 
gence will  take  this  contention  seriously.  And  that  will  be  an  infinite 

PhUip  TUlinghast. 

LITERATURE  "  -.  186 



Out  of  the  hush  and  darkness  of  deep  sleep 
Your  face  came  toward  me :  first  a  nebulous  gleam 

Like  some  dim  star  beheld  with  eyes  that  weep; 
Then  wavering  nearer  in  a  misty  flame. 

As  the  moon  falters  up  through  some  dark  stream. 

When  the  wind  moves  at  midnight.    With  you  came 

A  breath  of  music,  faint  and  far  away; 
And  light  and  music  somehow  seemed  the  same — 

The  one,  all  hope  that  longing  turns  to  fear; 
The  other,  all  men  dream  and  dare  not  say. 

Slowly  the  brightness  broadened,  and  drew  near, 
And  orbed  into  the  wonder  of  your  face. 

While  the  sound  swelled  and  echoed,  trembling-clear — 
The  minor  dominant  of  a  strong  desire 

Beating  the  sullen  bars  of  time  and  space; 

And  with  your  coming,  ever  the  sound  rose  higher. 

Quivering  with  extremity  of  sweet; 
And  I  could  see  your  eyes;  and  the  dim  fire 

That  framed  your  face  became  your  golden  hair 
Falling  in  streams  of  summer  to  your  feet; 

And  the  wild  melody  shook  earth  and  air. 

You  ever  drawing  closer,  till  at  last 
Music  and  brightness  grew  too  great  to  bear — 

Then  suddenly  the  yearning  cadence  caught 
The  chord  it  longed  for,  and  I  held  you  fast.  .    .    . 



Then  tbe  dream  changed.    Heary  with  heat,  and  fraught 
With  sighs  of  slumbering  roses,  hung  the  g^m 

Orer  ns.    Little -breezes  passed,  and  can^^t 
Sweetness  from  bower  and  flower,  and  wandered  on 

Through  murmuring  groves  and  beds  of  hidden  bloom. 

Hard  by,  a  marble  palace  rose,  tiiat  shone 

With  pearly  balconies  and  columns  tall 
Sprayed  into  arch  like  fountains  turned  to  stone; 

And  from  a  lower  window  deep-embayed. 
Two  bars  of  yellow  light  streamed  forth,  to  fall 

On  your  white  dress  and  shining  head,  and  made 
A  saint  of  you,  and  passed  imwillingly. 

Paling  to  amber  where  they  half  displayed 
Mysterious  gardens  darkling  down  to  meet 

The  starlit  laughter  of  the  distant  sea. 

Down  with  the  light  came  a  swift,  rhythmic  beat 

Of  eager  music,  and  tbe  yellow  bars 
Were  shaken  and  shaded,  as  the  hurrying  feet 

Of  dancers  crossed  the  light.    All  throbbed  in  time — 
The  music  and  our  hearts  and  the  hot  stars. 

Woes  of  dead  lovers  in  an  ancient  rhyme. 
Deeds  of  dead  heroes  when  the  world  was  young. 

Strife  of  great  souls  that  strove  in  vain  to  climb 
Steeps  of  sheer  joy  where  only  angels  tread — 

Ached  in  that  music,  finding  heart  and  tongue. 

And  the  old  childhood  feelings  I  thought  dead 
Came  back  upon  me,  seeming  strange  and  new : 

Love  of  I  knew  not  what;  and  causeless  dread; 
And  vague  desire.    All  old  things  passed  away 

Betumed  fulfilled,  and  all  found  form  in  you. 


Under  a  huge  dim-towering  tree  I  lay. 

You  bending  over  me.    I  knew  my  sight 
Had  never  fallen  on  your  face  by  day; 

Yet  had  I  known  yon  well  and  sought  you  long. 
Loved  in  forgotten  dreams  for  many  a  night. 

And  yon  were  soft  and  dear  like  an  old  song, 
And  wild  as  moonlit  clouds.    Love  strung  to  pain 

Tightened  your  cheek  and  made  your  breath  grow  long 
And  your  lips  brighten.    Tears  were  in  your  eyes, 

And  in  your  hair  the  scent  of  summer  rain. 

And  as  I  held  you  close,  we  seemed  to  rise 

And  float  away  over  the  waves  of  sound. 
And  all  things  but  ourselves  were  fantasies : 

Death  an  old  lie;  and  life  an  empty  quest; 
And  time  a  blind  mole  burrowing  underground. 

Then  our  eyes  drew  you  down.    Your  warm  lips  pressed 

On  mine  with  eager  kisses.    All  the  dark 
Was  full  of  you.    Through  your  quick-panting  breast 

I  felt  your  heart  slow  beating  against  my  own 
Like  the  heat-pulses,  in  a  dying  spark.  .    .    . 

Then  the  dream  faded.    Like  a  petal  blown 

Prom  some  tall  blossom,  you  floated  down — your  whole 

Love  in  your  eyes,  and  your  bright  arms  up-thrown — 
Blurred  to  a  hazy  glimmer,  far  withdrawn, 

So  faint  I  only  seemed  to  see  your  soul — 

Faded,  and  flashed,  and  vanished.    And  the  dawn 

Burst  in  upon  me  and  I  woke.    Yet  still 
Truth  seemed  a  shadow  of  the  dream  foregone. 

And  all  brave  hopes  your  glamour  cast  before. 
And  all  good  thoughts  the  echo  of  your  will. 

Xflft  THB  lOBUM 

And  ^11  jon  hdp  me.    Shall  we  mert  causa  mare. 

Out  of  t:iie  hndi  and  darfrnfgH  of  deep  deep. 
In  the  day-woild^a  tnmnltnans  toil  and  war? 
And  if  I  find  70a — shall  jaa  €fver  be 
Aa  the  waim  fireli^t  of  my  hmng  to  Tngj 
Or  acme  dim  star  bdield  with  eyes  iiiat  weep  ? 

Brian  Hooker. 

The  Forum 

March,  1909 


BY  I8AA0   L.  RICE 

"The  introduction  of  great  inyentions  appears  one  of  the  most 
distinguished  of  human  actions,  and  the  ancients  so  considered  it; 
for  they  assigned  divine  honors  to  the  authors  of  inyentions,  but 
only  heroic  honors  to  those  who  displayed  ciyil  merit;  such  as  the 
founders  of  cities  and  empires,  legislators,  the  deliyerers  of  their 
country  from  lasting  misfortunes,  the  quellers  of  tyrants,  and  the 
like."— Lord  Bacon,  quoted  in  ''Walker  on  Patenta." 

It  is  inherent  in  the  nature  of  man  and  things  that  at  times  the 
question  of  production  of  wealthy  and  at  others  that  of  its  distribution 
becomes  paramount.  In  the  early  stages  of  a  country's  development  the 
aim  is  to  produce  enough  to  make  it  independent  of  foreign  production. 
When  that  period  is  measurably  reached  it  is  found  advantageous,  never- 
theless, to  continue  the  stimulation  of  production  in  order  to  gain  the 
markets  of  the  world.  The  inevitable  postulate  and  result  of  such  a 
policy  is  the  concentration  of  wealth,  and  the  inevitable  consequence  of 
this  in  turn  is  an  agitation  against  concentrated  wealth  on  the  ground 
that  it  implies  an  unequal  and  therefore,  presumably  an  unjust  distribu- 
tion. As  monopoly  constitutes  such  concentration  in  its  most  intense 
form,  the  agitation  against  unequal  distribution  of  wealth  finds  its  first 
expression  in  anti-monopoly  legislation. 

At  the  time  when  our  constitution  was  adopted,  this  country  was  in 
the  stage  where  the  stimulation  of  production  was  a  requisite  of  our 
existence,  and  as  corollary  to  that,  the  encouragement  of  inventive  genius 
to  devise  ways  and  means  of  making  labor  more  and  more  productive,  so 
that  notwithstanding  our  scant  population  we  might  become  self-sup- 
P^rmiirion  to  republish  artieUi  is  reserved 

]^90  THE  FORUM 

porting,  and  free  from  the  trammels  of  commerce  with  Europe,  then  ex- 
tremely onerous.  To  this  end  the  following  provision  was  inserted  in 
that  instrument: 

Congress  shall  have  power  to  promote  the  progress  of  science  and 
useful  arts  by  securing  for  limited  time  to  inventors  the  exclusive  rights 
to  their  respective  discoveries.    (Art.  I,  Sec.  8.) 

This  provision  continued  the  policy  that  had  been  dominant  in  Qreat 
Britain  on  its  emergence  from  feudalism.  Although  apparently  in  con- 
tradiction to  the  anti-monopolistic  legislation  coincident  with  the  de- 
velopment of  that  monarchy  into  an  industrial  state,  it  was  based  on  the 
conviction  that  inventions  are  the  soul  of  industrial  development,  and 
that  monopoly  allowed  in  them  for  the  purpose  of  encouraging  them 
would  have  an  effect  diametrically  opposite  to  that  resulting  from  the 
financial  monopolies  that  had  been  prevalent. 

Nevertheless,  it  cannot  be  denied  that  monopolistic  rights  for  what- 
ever purpose  granted  act  as  a  check  upon  the  unlimited  use  of  the  ob- 
jects of  those  rights,  and  that  therefore  producers  naturally  incline  to- 
ward profiting  from  inventions  without  being  hampered  by  such  rights. 
And  although  the  restrictions  arising  from  patent  laws  are  funda- 
mentally similar  to  those  arising  from  private  property  rights  in  gen- 
eral, preventing,  as  they  do,  one  person  from  using  for  himself  the  prop- 
erty of  another,  in  practice  a  distinction  has  arisen  between  the  violation 
of  patent  rights  as  compared  to  rights  of  property  of  a  more  tangible 
character;  in  consequence  of  which,  moral  obloquy  attaches  to  the  thief 
who  steals  the  purse  of  the  inventor,  containing  the  proceeds  of  a  patent 
right  that  has  been  sold,  while  praise  and  rewards  are  dealt  out  to  the 
enterprising  person  who  steals  a  patent  invention  before  it  is  converted 
into  money.  This  shows  that  in  practical  life  ethics  and  the  decalogue 
are  apt  to  count  for  little  unless  given  vigor  by  positive  law.  If  the 
property  right  in  an  object  is  well  defined  and  the  title  to  it  fairly  easy 
of  demonstration,  no  matter  whether  the  object  be  tangible  or  intangible, 
the  fact  that  retribution  can  fairly  be  expected  to  follow  the  theft,  causes 
moral  obloquy  to  attach  to  the  thief  automatically.  If  a  property  right 
is  ill  defined  and  title  diflScult  to  establish,  little  or  no  protection  is  af- 
forded by  moral  scruples. 

An  appeal  to  ethics  therefore  being  useless,  the  question  can  be 
treated  only  from  the  point  of  view  whether  our  country  has  arrived  at 
the  stage  of  production  where  inventions  can  safely  be  discouraged.  That 
the  policy  now  pursued  tends  to  that  end  admits  of  no  question.  To 
make  this  evident  to  those  who  are  unfamiliar  with  the  subject  it  is  only 


necessary  briefly  to  outline  the  usual  history  of  an  important  patent 
after  it  leaves  the  patent  office. 

The  vast  majority  of  patents  have  indeed  no  history.  They  are  either 
taken  out  by  an  enthusiastic  inventor  who  believes  that  his  improvement 
will  revolutionize  his  art  or  by  corporations  who  deem  it  wise  to  ac- 
quire as  many  patents  as  possible  as  additional  protection  to  the  basic 
inventions  which  they  control.  Patents  such  as  these,  which  consti- 
tute the  large  majority  of  patents  issued,  are  rarely  infringed,  and  only 
occasionally  crop  up  as  minor  factors  in  serious  patent  litigation.  Should 
an  invention,  however,  be  an  important  one  and  the  inventor  succeed  in 
finding  capital  to  exploit  it,  then  he  is  certain  to  discover  that  the  more 
he  has  benefited  the  public  the  more  his  invention  is  likely  to  be  a  source 
of  anxiety,  trouble  and  loss,  rather  than  of  profit;  for  the  more  important 
the  invention,  the  more  it  conflicts  with  existing  methods  of  the  art  to 
which  it  is  applicable,  and  the  more  its  introduction  will  be  opposed. 
Great  effort  and  large  capital  must  first  be  expended  in  order  to  convince 
the  public  of  its  usefulness,  which  expense,  of  course,  must  be  borne  en- 
tirely by  the  persons  exploiting  it.  Out  of  the  seventeen  years'  life 
of  a  patent  it  is  not  at  all  extravagant  to  say  that  more  than  half  of 
that  time  is  required  to  establish  the  invention  commercially.  How- 
ever, when  at  last  it  is  recognized  as  an  improvement  on  existing 
methods,  and  has  therefore  become  a  necessity,  then  the  next  step  is  that 
all  hands  steal  it,  with  every  chance  that  the  patent  protecting  it  will  be 
caught  somewhere  in  the  fine  net  of  the  litigation  and  either  be  declared 
invalid  or  so  limited  as  to  make  evasion  possible,  and  perhaps  easy.  In 
fact,  the  owners  of  a  patent  will  long  hesitate  before  attempting  to  assert 
their  rights,  as  by  doing  so  they  risk  all  they  have  invested  in  the  patent 
and  its  exploitation  to  the  chances  of  a  suit  in  which  the  law  permits  as 
many  as  twenty-seven  defences.*    Such  a  suit  indeed  is  almost  as  haz- 

^Walker  on  Patents,  enumerates  them  as  follows: 

"The  defences  which  are  pleadable  in  bar  to  an  action,  are  very  numerous  in 
the  patent  law,  and  most  of  them  are  peculiar  to  this  branch  of  jurisprudence. 
Where  the  facts  appear  to  warrant  so  doing,  a  defendant  may  plead:  1.  That  the 
matter  covered  by  the  letters  patent  was  not  a  statutory  subject  of  a  patent:  or 
2.  That  it  was  not  an  invention:  or  3.  That  it  was  not  novel  at  the  time  of  its 
alleged  invention:  or  4.  That  it  was  not  useful  at  that  time:  or  5.  That  the 
inventor  actually  abandoned  the  invention :  or  6.  That  he  constructively  abandoned 
it,  by  not  applying  for  a  patent  on  it,  during  the  time  allowed  by  the  statutes  for 
such  an  application  to  be  made:  or  7.  That  the  invention  claimed  in  the  original 
patent  is  substantially  different  from  any  indicated,  suggested,  or  described  in  the 
original  application  therefor:  or  8.  That  the  patentee  surreptitiously  or  unjustly 
obtained  the  patent  for  that  which  was  in  fact  the  invention  of  another,  who  was 

192  THE  FORUM 

ardous  as  a  lottery.  Its  outcome  may  hang  upon  the  impression  made 
upon  a  court  by  the  claim  that  the  invention  is  not  patentable,  because 
of  a  publication  in  an  old  newspaper  in  some  outlandish  language,  which 
the  attorney  for  the  defendant,  in  his  scouring  of  the  world  for  a  plausi- 
ble defence,  may  have  detected,  and  on  which  a  plausible  argument  in 
favor  of  anticipation  may  have  been  based;  or  it  may  happen  that  an 
invention  which  has  revolutionized  a  particular  trade  impresses  the  court 
as  one  that  any  person  with  ordinary  skill  in  that  trade  could  have  made 
if  he  had  only  thought  of  it,^  and  for  that  reason  not  patentable;  or  it 
may  even  occur  that  an  invention  which  has  been  eagerly  adopted  by 
every  manufacturer  engaged  in  the  line  to  which  it  is  applicable  may,  in 
the  mind  of  the  court,  have  been  couched  in  language  tiiat  does  not  dis- 
close the  invention,  and  therefore,  the  patent  declared  invalid;  indeed  the 
very  expenditure  on  a  large  scale  for  the  purpose  of  introducing  an  in- 
using  reasonable  diligence  in  adapting  and  perfecting  the  same:  or  9.  That  the 
invention  was  made  by  another  jointly  with  the  sole  applicant:  or  10.  That  it 
was  made  by  one  only  of  two  or  more  joint  applicants:  or  11.  That  for  the  pur- 
pose of  deceiving  the  public,  the  description  and  specification  filed  in  the  Patent 
Office  was  made  to  cover  less  than  the  whole  truth  relevant  to  the  invention,  or 
was  made  to  cover  more  than  was  necessary  to  produce  the  desired  effect:  or 
12.  That  the  description  of  the  invention  in  the  specification  is  not  in  such  full, 
clear,  concise,  and  exact  terms  as  to  enable  any  person  skilled  in  the  art  or 
science  to  which  it  appertains,  or  with  which  it  is  most  nearly  connected,  to 
make,  construct,  compoimd,  and  use  the  same:  or  13.  That  the  claims  of  the 
patent  are  not  distinct:  or  14.  That  the  patentee  unreasonably  delayed  to  enter 
a  needed  disclaimer:  or  16.  That  the  original  patent  was  surrendered  and  reissued 
in  the  absence  of  every  statutory  foundation  thereof:  or  16.  That  the  claims  of 
the  reissue  patent  in  suit  are  broader  than  those  of  the  original,  and  that  the 
reissue  was  not  applied  for  till  a  long  time  had  elapsed  after  the  original  was 
granted:  or  17.  That  the  reissue  patent  in  suit  covers  a  different  invention  from 
-any  which  the  original  patent  shows  was  intended  to  be  secured  thereby:  or 
18.  That  the  invention  claimed  in  the  original  patent  is  substantially  identical 
with  an  invention  claimed  in  a  prior  patent  granted  on  the  application  of  the  same 
Inventor:  or  10.  That  the  patent  was  repealed:  or  20.  That  the  patent  legally 
expired  before  the  alleged  infringement  began,  or  before  it  ended:  or  21.  That 
the  patentee  made  or  sold  specimens  of  the  invention  covered  by  his  patent,  with- 
out marking  them  'patented,'  and  without  notifying  the  defendant  of  his  infringe- 
ment: or  22.  That  the  plaintiff  has  no  title  to  the  patent,  or  no  such  title  as  can 
enable  him  to  maintain  the  action :  or  23.  That  the  defendant  has  a  license,  which 
authorized  part  or  all  of  the  doings  which  constitute  the  alleged  infringement:  or 
24.  That  the  defendant  has  a  release,  discharging  him  from  liability  on  accoimt 
of  part  or  all  of  the  alleged  infringement:  or  25.  That  the  defendant  is  not  guilty 
of  any  infringement  of  the  patent  upon  which  he  is  sued:  or  26.  That  the  plaintiff 
is  estopped  from  enforcing  any  right  of  action  against  the  defendant:  or  27.  That 
the  cause  of  action  sued  upon,  is  partly  or  wholly  barred  by  some  statute  of 


yention  may  be  used  as  an  argument  against  the  validity  of  a  patent  on 
the  ground  that  it  was  not  the  invention  but  the  capital  invested  in  ad- 
vertisements which  caused  its  general  adoption. 

Nevertheless^  as  a  general  rule^  the  owners  of  every  important  patent 
are  finally  brought  to  the  point  where  infringers  who  have  stolen  the 
invention  not  only  deprive  them  of  their  monopoly,  but  are  able  to  un- 
dersell them,  as  the  patentees  operate  under  greater  cost  on  account  of 
the  expenses  incurred  by  them  in  the  purchase  of  the  patent,  and  ite  ex- 
ploitetion  during  the  periods  when  public  demand  had  to  be  created  and 
stimulated.  When  that  point  is  reached,  they  are  brought  face  to  face 
with  the  dilemma  of  either  losing  their  entire  investment  in  the  patent 
and  its  exploitation,  or  bringing  suit.  And  now  they  are  confronted 
with  a  procedure  that  seems  to  have  been  especially  created  and  developed 
not  to  carry  out  but  to  nullify  Section  8  of  Article  I  of  the  Constitution. 

The  action  begins  like  all  others :  by  a  complaint  in  which  the  plain- 
tiff sets  out  his  patent  and  prays  for  an  injunction  against  the  infringer 
and  an  accounting  for  the  profits  illegally  made.  This  complaint  is  met 
by  an  answer  in  which  the  defendant  sets  up  as  many  of  the  twenty-seven 
defences  as  can  with  even  the  slightest  plausibility  be  dragged  into  the 
case.  The  trial  then  proceeds,  but  not  in  court.  It  is  conducted  entirely 
by  the  attorneys  and  is  practically  controlled  by  the  defendant,  whose  pol- 
icy is  to  delay  the  proceedings  as  much  as  possible  in  order  that  the  ex- 
penses may  exhaust  the  plaintiff's  resources,  or  at  any  rate,  keep  him  out 
of  the  enjoyment  of  the  fruits  of  his  patent  for  the  longest  possible 
period.  The  better  to  accomplish  this  purpose,  his  policy  is  to  fill  up  the 
record  with  all  sorts  of  irrelevant  matter  and  examine  witnesses  in  all 
parte  of  the  world,  irrespective  of  whether  their  testimony  has  any  mate- 
rial bearing  on  the  case.  It  is  true  that  when  the  abuse  becomes  too 
flagrant  a  motion  for  relief  may  be  made  to  the  court,  but  it  is  also  true 
that  this  motion  consumes  time  and  increases  expense,  and  therefore  is 
directly  in  aid  of  the  intereste  of  the  defendant,  as  in  the  meantime  the 
latter  proceeds  to  exploit  the  invention,  regardless  of  the  patent,  while 
ite  life  goes  on  diminishing. 

After  thus  dragging  along  for  two  or  three  years  and  building  up 
a  record  consisting  of  a  huge  amount  of  testimony — ^very  little  of  which 
probably  would  be  admitted  in  a  court  of  law  as  evidence  if  the  trials 
were  conducted  in  open  court — ^when,  at  length,  the  matter  comes  to  a 
hearing,  the  judge,  who  is  trained  as  a  lawyer  and  not  as  an  expert  in 
all  the  arte  and  sciences  in  the  world,  must  wade  through  this  mass, 
probably  full  of  technical  matters,  with  only  such  light  as  the 
attorneys  of  either  side  will  give  him  in  their  argumente  and  briefs; 


294  '^^^  KIKDM 

10  that  the  lespectiye  ability  of  the  MofniejE  plajB  a  far  greater  part 
in  the  decision  of  these  cases,  than  it  does  in  cases  depending  i^n  prin- 
ciples of  law  applied  to  questions  arising  from  the  ordinary  relations  of 

Moreover^  qnite  frequently,  the  judge  during  the  hearing  asks  a  ques- 
tion affecting  the  validity  of  the  patent,  which  occurs  to  him,  but  had 
never  occurred  to  either  of  the  parties  or  their  experts  or  their  lawyers 
during  the  years  of  the  trial,  and  if  the  attorney  of  the  plaintiff  has  not 
presence  of  mind  enough  to  find  a  satisfactory  answer  on  the  spur  of  the 
moment  (for,  after  all,  the  attorney  is  a  lawyer  and  not  an  expert,  and 
can  be  presumed  to  know  the  case  only  as  far  as  testimony  may  have 
developed  it),  he  becomes  converted  into  an  expert  witness  against  his 
own  side,  and  one  of  such  weight  that  the  huge  mass  of  testimony 
gathered  together  at  ruinous  expense  of  time  and  money  will  go  for 
naught,  if  the  judge  is  under  the  impression  that  the  question  thus 
propounded  and  unsatisfactorily  answered  is  the  pivot  on  which  the  case 

But  even  if  the  patent  passes,  as  it  occasionally  docs,  through  this 
ordeal  as  well  as  all  the  previous  ones,  and  is  sustained,  and  an  injunc- 
tion issues  restraining  the  defendant  from  further  infringement,  coupled 
with  an  accounting,  the  patentee  has  still  a  mountain  of  troubles  before 
him.  There  is,  first  of  all,  an  appeal  to  the  Cireuit  Court  of  Appeals, 
and  it  is  quite  usual  for  the  court  to  suspend  the  injunction  and  account- 
ing during  the  time  required  for  such  an  appeal,  on  the  condition  of  a 
bond  being  given,  usually  fixed  at  a  comparatively  small  amount,  so  as 
not  to  embarrass  the  infringer  in  the  further  exploitation  of  the  inven- 
tion pending  the  decision  of  the  Appellate  Court. 

If  the  judgment  be  affirmed,  there  is  still  a  long  and  dangerous  road 
to  be  traversed  by  the  patentee  if  he  attempts  to  gamer  the  fruits.  Not 
only  can  every  step  of  the  accounting  be  contested  in  respect  to  the 
principles  governing  such  proceeding,  but  the  validity  of  the  patent  itself 
is  again  and  constantly  put  in  jeopardy,  owing  to  the  possibility  of  newly 
discovered  evidence  convincing  the  court  that  there  is  ground  for  re- 
opening the  entire  matter,  including  the  validity  of  the  patent.  But 
even  if  the  patentee  finally  prevails  against  one  infringer,  the  others 
can,  nevertheless,  proceed  with  manufacturing  and  selling  the  infringed 
device,  though  they  reside  in  the  same  United  States  circuit  in  which 
a  judgment  in  favor  of  the  patent  had  been  •  rendered,  as  such  a 
judgment  affects  only  the  parties  in  the  case;  so  that  new  suits  must  be 
brought  against  the  other  infringers,  each  of  whom  is  in  position  to 
contest  anew  every  step  necessary  again  to  establish  the  patent,  and  can 


in  the  meantime  continue  to  infringe,  provided  only  that  the  court  has 
been  lenient  enough  to  permit  him  so  to  continue  on  filing  a  bond. 

It  generally  happens,  moreover,  that  when  an  invention  is  of  such 
importance  that  it  is  infringed  in  more  than  one  circuit,  it  becomes 
necessary,  in  order  to  protect  the  patent,  to  carry  on  infringement 
suits  simultaneously  in  more  than  one,  and  possibly  in  all  of  the 

And  now,  as  in  each  one  of  the  suits  the  same  procedure  is  followed, 
involving  the  same  hazards,  it  is  quite  to  be  expected  that  a  patent  may 
be  declared  void  in  one  circuit  while  sustained  in  all  the  others.  If  this 
occurs,  owing  to  the  fact  that  only  the  parties  in  litigation  are  affected' 
by  the  judgments  rendered,  the  doctrine  of  res  adjudicata  comes  into 
play,  which,  not  only  renders  the  successful  infringer  immune  in  the 
circuit  wherein  the  patent  has  been  declared  void,  but  extends  this  im- 
munity to  all  the  customers  of  the  infringer,  even  though  they  reside  in 
the  circuits  in  which  the  patent  had  been  declared  valid.  And  if  it, 
should  happen  that  the  patentee  as  well  as  the  successful  infringer  reside 
in  the  same  circuit  injunctions  may  be  issued  restraining  the  patentee 
from  bringing  suit  against  the  infringer,  in  the  circuits  wherein  the  pat- 
ent has  been  declared  valid,  on  aflBdavits  of  the  successful  infringer  to  the 
effect  that  the  other  infringers  are  his  customers.  To  all  intents  and 
purposes  the  successful  infringer  now  becomes  a  tenant-in-common  of 
the  patent  with  and  enjoys  equal  rights  with  the  patentee,  and  thus  our 
patent  law,  intended  to  carry  out  the  constitutional  provision  for  the 
protection  of  inventors,  not  only  falls  short  of  doing  this,  but  in  certain 
circumstances  actually  deprives  the  inventor  of  his  monopoly  and 
confers  it  on  the  thief  of  his  invention.  These  circumstances  arise  when 
the  patentee,  having  paid  large  sums  for  the  invention  and  expended  still 
larger  ones  in  improvements  necessary  to  make  the  invention  commercial 
and  cause  its  adoption,  and  having  in  addition  to  all  this  an  obligation  fo 
pay  heavy  royalties,  succumbs  in  the  competition  with  the  infringer  who 
never  paid  for  the  invention,  nor  its  improvements,  nor  for  its  exploita- 
tion, and  is  free  from  royalties.  That  he  must  succumb  under  such  con- 
ditions is  an  inevitable  law  of  trade  and  universally  recognized  ever  since 
the  case  of  the  rival  broomsellers  known  to  fame,  one  of  whom  stole  his 
brooms  and  therefore  had  no  trouble  in  underselling  his  competitor  and 
monopolizing  the  trade. 

There  can  be  no  question  but  that  a  law  which  brings  about  such  a 
state  of  affairs  is  unrighteous,  and  ought  to  be  either  repealed  or 
amended.  If  we  have  reached  a  period  in  our  industrial  development 
where  the  production  of  wealth  has  become  a  secondary  consideration 

]^96  ^™^  FORUM 

and  flhonld  be  retarded  rather  than  stimulated,  as  a  postdate  of  a  more 
equal  distribntion,  and  therefore  legal  monopolies  having  for  their  ob- 
jects the  encouragement  of  production  should  no  longer  be  granted^  then, 
of  course,  the  time  has  come  to  repeal  our  patent  laws. 

If,  on  the  other  hand,  the  means  of  securing  constantly  increasing 
production  under  most  favorable  economic  conditions  is  considered  para- 
mount to  the  methods  of  distribution  of  the  wealth  produced,  then  our 
endeavor  must  be  to  stimulate  invention  and  encourage  inventors  by 
legislation  that  will  carry  out  in  letter  and  spirit  the  constitutional  pro- 
vision relating  to  patents,  and  not  delude  ourselves  with  makeshifts  that 
become  traps  to  ensnare  the  unwary.  We  must  not  seek  to  turn  the  in- 
ventor's bread  into  stone,  but  in  exchange  for  the  benefits  which  he  con- 
fers upon  us,  in  increasing  our  productive  capacity,  we  must  give  him 
an  adequate  consideration  by  permitting  him  for  a  brief  period  to  have 
as  full  an  enjoyment  of  the  monopoly  of  his  invention  as  of  the  monopoly 
which  he  possesses  of  the  watch  in  his  pocket,  and  we  should  protect  him 
against  the  thieves  of  his  invention  as  surely  as  we  protect  him  in  the 
ownership  of  his  watch  against  pickpockets. 

To  accomplish  this  requires  indeed  a  complete  change  of  the  theory 
which  now  underlies  our  patent  law,  viz.,  that  a  patent  monopoly  is  a 
private  privilege  derogatory  to  the  personal  rights  of  each  individual 
affected  by  it,  and  that  therefore  the  right  to  the  privilege  nrust  be  es- 
tablished anew  against  every  individual  contesting  it,  by  suits  in 
personam.  Prom  this  false  theory,  all  the  incongruities  and  iniquities 
of  our  patent  law  flow  as  logical  consequences.  The  very  contrary  is 
true:  a  patent  is  an  obligation  assumed  by  the  public  for  a  valuable 
consideration  which  it  must  enforce  as  a  public  duty  against  all  infrac- 
tors; and  the  proceedings  relating  to  patents  should  therefore  be  in 
rem.  That  is  to  say,  before  the  public  definitely  assumes  the  obligation, 
it  must  be  definitely  ascertained  whether  the  claimant  is  entitled  to  be 
considered  an  inventor  and  whether  the  public  is  benefited  by  the  inven- 
tion, and  this  once  ascertained  and  established,  the  patent  should  be 
held  good  and  valid  against  the  world. 

In  order  to  accomplish  this,  it  seems  to  me  necessary  to  enact  an 
amendatory  law  which  should  embrace  the  following  provisions: 

I.  The  establishment  in  Washington  of  a  federal  court  having  all 
the  powers  of  a  court  of  chancery  invested  with  exclusive  original  and 
appellate  jurisdiction  throughout  the  United  States  in  patent  and  kin- 
dred causes,  whose  process  shall  run  throughout  the  United  States  and 
its  possessions. 

II.  The  publication  of  an  official  weekly  patent  gazette  containing 


in  extenso  all  patents  granted  within  th^  preceding  week  and  which  shall 
be  open  to  subscription  or  for  sale  in  single  numbers. 

III.  All  grants  of  patents  to  be  provisional  for  a  period  of  six  months 
and  subject  during  ^nch  period  to  proceedings  for  annulment  on  part 
of  the  public. 

IV.  All  persons  desiring  to  obtain  a  decree  for  the  annulment  of 
any  patent  to  file  severally  with  the  clerk  of  the  court  a  complaint  con- 
taining the  allegations  claimed  to  constitute  grounds  for  annulmont. 
Such  grounds  should  be  fixed  by  law,  well  defined,  and  under  prin- 
ciples easy  of  application,  since  by  the  publication  of  the  invention  in-  ' 
cident  to  the  granting  of  a  patent  the  patentee  loses  his  property  therein 
for  the  benefit  of  the  public,  and  therefore  annulment  is  tantamount  to 

V.  Upon  the  filing  of  any  complaint,  the  clerk  shall  immediately 
notify  the  patentee  by  mail  of  such  complaint  and  also  cause  to  be  served 
upon  him  a  copy  thereof.  Within  two  months  after  such  service  the 
patentee  shall  file  his  answer  and  the  clerk  shall  ^kewise  cause  a  copy 
thereof  to  be  served  upon  the  complainant,  after  which  service  the  case 
shall  be  placed  upon  the  calendar  and  brought  to  trial  within  nine  months 
after  the  grant  upon  all  the  complaints  simultaneously.  If  the  com- 
plaints are  numerous,  the  court  shall  upon  application  of  the  patentee 
appoint  a  special  master  in  chancery  to  collate  and  marshal  the  issues, 
and  the  court  during  trial  may  make  such  rulings  as  may  be  proper  to 
prevent  cumulative  testimony.  If  the  state  of  the  calendar  is  such  that 
the  case  is  not  likely  to  be  reached  within  that  time,  then  upon  motion 
by  any  of  the  parties,  any  judge  of  the  court  may  appoint  a  master  in 
chancery  vested  with  all  the  powers  of  the  court  for  the  purpose  of  con- 
ducting such  trial. 

VI.  At  such  trial,  the  parties  shall  appear  with  their  experts  and 
witnesses,  who  shall  be  examined  orally,  and  shall  produce  such  testimony 
as  may  have  been  taken  by  commission  under  special  authority  of  the 
court  upon  issues  of  fact,  and  the  case  shall  be  heard  uninterruptedly 
during  court  hours  until  completed,  whether  the  same  be  before 
a  judge  or  before  a  master.  If  the  trial  is  had  before  a  master,  he  shall 
file  his  report  within  three  months  after  such  trial,  and  such  report  shall 
have  the  effect  of  a  final  decree  unless  disapproved  by  the  court  within 
thirty  days  thereafter,  and  a  new  trial  granted. 

VII.  The  decree  may  sustain  the  validity  of  the  patent,  may 
amend  it  so  as  to  conform  with  the  evidence,  or  may  annul  it.  Any  of 
the  parties  may  appeal  from  the  decree  to  the  Appellate  Division  of  the 
Court  within   sixty   days  after  service  of  the   entry  thereof,   which 


H4^%ivv  ^hII  be  caused  to  be  made  upon  all  the  parties  by  the  clerk  of 
\thi^  wvuik.  If  upon  the  hearing  of  such  appeal  any  judge  may 
liuvt  it  Uixressary  to  ask  questions  of  the  counsel  of  either  party, 
%buvh  cannot  be  answered  by  the  testimony  of  record,  such  counsel  shall 
^  v^atitled  to  subpoena  further  witnesses  for  examination  before  the 
^^l>tH?Uate  division  on  the  points  to  be  elucidated;  and  such  testimony 
lAhuU  form  part  of  the  record  as  though  it  had  been  originally  given  in 
th<^  trial  of  the  case. 

Yin.  In  the  absence  of  any  proceedings  for  annulment  of  a  provi- 
sional patent  for  the  space  of  six  months  after  its  grant,  or  upon  entry 
of  a  final  decree,  the  issue  of  the  patent  shall  take  place,  and  upon  such 
iaaue  it  shall  be  held  valid  against  the  world  and  subject  only  to  can- 
cellation on  the  ground  of  subsequently  discovered  fraud. 

IX.  In  the  event  of  any  infringement  of  a  patent,  the  patentee  may 
bring  suit  against  the  infringer  in  the  patent  court  for  an  injunction 
and  an  accounting,  and  on  proper  affidavits  shall  be  entitled  to  a  prelim- 
inary injunction  restraining  the  infringement  of  the  patent  pendente 
lite,  the  only  defence  permitted  in  such  a  suit  to  be  that  of  non-infringe- 

X.  In  order  to  prevent  a  patent  from  ruining  existing  industries, 
persons  aflFected  may  petition  the  court  for  a  compulsory  license,  and 
upon  the  patentee  being  heard  the  court  may,  where  the  evidence  sus- 
tains the  petition,  in  its  discretion,  order  the  patentee  to  give  the  licenses 
prayed  for,  but  only  on  terms  which  in  the  opinion  of  the  court  will 
aiford  the  patentee  ample  remuneration  and  provide  for  amortization. 

XI.  The  duration  of  a  patent  should  date  from  the  final  issue,  and 
be  limited  to  seven  years,  with  the  right  on  part  of  the  patentee  to  ob- 
tain two  several  renewals  of  five  years  each. 

XII.  As  under  the  proposed  legislation  patent  rights  would  become 
valuable  property,  the  fees  should  be  sufficiently  high  to  defray  at  least 
all  the  expenses  connected  with  the  maintenance  of  the  patent  office  and 
of  the  patent  court.  They  should  be  so  graded  as  to  be  comparatively 
low  for  the  provisional  grant,  considerably  higher  for  the  final  issue,  and 
correspondingly  increased  for  each  renewal. 

I8aac  L.  Rice, 



On  the  fourth  of  March  William  Howard  Taft,  of  Ohio,  will  take 
the  oath  of  office  under  the  white  dome  of  the  United  States  Capitol 
and,  returning  to  the  White  House  amid  the  applause  of  hundreds  of 
thousands  of  American  citizens,  will  enter  upon  his  administration  as 
President  of  the  United  States. 

On  the  morning  of  the  fourth  of  March  it  will  be  President  Boose- 
velt;  on  the  afternoon  of  the  fourth  of  March  it  will  be  President  Taft. 
One  ruler  will  be  speeding  away  to  hunt  in  the  wilds 
'Pjj^  of  Africa  and  another  ruler  will  have  taken  up  the 

Inaugura-  reins  of  government    The  country  will  feel  no  shock. 

tion  The  wheels  of  government  will  revolve  with  steady  and 

monotonous  whirr,  even  though  another  hand  is  on  the 
lever.  Belations  with  foreign  nations  will  remain  unchanged.  Business 
will  proceed  without  interruption  and  not  only  in  the  remote  villages, 
but  in  the  busy  cities,  the  tide  of  human  afifairs  will  surge  on  with  only  a 
passing  interest  in  the  event  in  Washington.  The  truth  of  these  state- 
ments does  not,  however,  detract  one  iota  from  the  significance  and 
interest  of  the  spectacle.  Viewed  with  an  analytical  and  observing  eye, 
it  recalls  the  fact  that  seventy  millions  of  people  have  registered  their 
will  at  the  polls  and  that  the  judgment  of  the  majority  is  finding  its 
concrete  expression  in  the  elevation  of  an  untitled  citizen  to  the  high 
office  of  President  of  the  United  States.  On  the  fourth  of  March  par- 
tisanship is  forgotten.  Patriotism  takes  its  place  and  a  shower  of  good 
wishes  falls  upon  the  new  executive. 

It  augurs  well  for  the  stability  of  our  republican  institutions  that 
these  political  revolutions  can  be  so  peacefully  and  even  joyously  accom- 
plished. Even  when  control  passes  from  one  party  to  another,  as  when 
Mr.  Cleveland  succeeded  Mr.  Arthur,  there  is  no  disturbance.  In  the 
present  instance,  when  Mr.  Taft  is  the  avowed  disciple  of  the  doctrines 
in  which  President  Boosevelt  so  thoroughly  believed,  the  danger  of  tran- 
sition is  reduced  to  a  minimum.  We  know  that  honorable  peace  is  cer- 
tain to  be  maintained,  that  the  economic  policy  of  the  government  is 
not  to  be  altered  in  principle,  that  the  laws  are  to  be  administered  with 
firmness,  justice  and  strict  impartiality,  and  that  there  cannot  be  any 
radical  departure  from  the  conditions  which  have  contributed  to  pros- 
perity during  the  past  twelve  years.    The  incoming  of  the  new  adminis- 

200  THE  FORUM 

tration  is^  therefore^  accompanied  by  a  universal  note  of  confidence.  The 
skies  are  blue,  no  danger  threatens.  The  ship  of  state  is  to  sail  over  a 
well-charted  sea  and  both  commander  and  crew  are  experienced  and 

At  the  same  time,  there  is  a  natural  interest  attaching  to  a  change 
of  administration.  What  are  the  personal  traits  and  predilections  of 
the  new  President?  What  are  his  beliefs,  his  policies,  his  attitude  toward 
men  and  things?  These  are  questions  which  invite  some  consideration. 
Upon  the  answers  depends  the  success  or  failure  of  an  administration. 

*^f  I  am  elected  President,''  said  Mr.  Taft  in  a  speech  at  Sandusky 
last  September,  'T.  propose  to  devote  all  the  ability  that  is  in  me  to  the 

constructive  work  of  suggesting  to  Congress  the  means 
Will  by  which  the  Boosevelt  policies  shall  be  clinched." 

Continue  ^  Th^^  fijgt  of  all,  we  find  that  the  purpose  of  the 

oosevc    a  ^^^  President  is  to  continue  the  work  so  efiEectively 

begun  by  Mr.  Boosevelt.  What,  in  particular,  is  to  be 
done  in  this  direction?  Mr.  Taft  himself  answers  the  question.  ^'The 
chief  function  of  the  next  administration,  in  my  judgment,''  he  said  in 
his  speech  to  the  notification  committee,  "is  distinct  from,  and  a  pro- 
gressive development  of,  that  which  has  been  performed  by  President 
Roosevelt.  The  chief  function  of  the  next  administration  is  to  com- 
plete and  perfect  the  machinery  by  which  these  standards  may  be  main- 
tained, by  which  the  law-breakers  may  be  promptly  restrained  and 
punished,  but  which  shall  operate  with  suflScient  accuracy  and  dispatch 
to  interfere  with  legitimate  business  as  little  as  possible."  If  we  go  still 
further  into  detail  we  find  that  Mr.  Taft  would  have  the  Interstate  Com- 
merce Commission  relieved  of  its  jurisdiction  as  an  executive  and  direct- 
ing body  and  would  limit  its  functions  to  the  quasi- judicial  investigation 
of  complaints.  He  would  have  corporations  which  possess  the  power 
and  opportunity  to  effect  illegal  restraints  of  trade  and  monopolies  sub- 
jected to  registry  and  to  proper  publicity  regulations  and  the  supervision 
of  the  Department  of  Labor.  We  find,  in  fact,  that  Mr.  Taft  has  closely 
observed  and  followed  the  preachings  and  the  practices  of  President 
Boosevelt  and  that  he  will  enter  the  White  House  fully  imbued  with  the 
spirit  of  his  predecessor.  *TJnlawful  trusts,"  he  says,  "should  be  re- 
strained with  all  the  efSciency  of  injunctive  process,  and  the  persons 
engaged  in  maintaining  them  should  be  punished  with  all  the  severity  of 
criminal  prosecution,  in  order  that  the  methods  pursued  in  the  operation 
of  their  business  shall  be  brought  within  the  law."  Surely  this  is  a 
sentence  which  Theodore  Boosevelt  might  have  penned. 


It  being  apparent^  therefore,  that  the  chief  aim  of  the  new  adminis- 
tration will  be  to  tread  in  the  footsteps  of  Mr.  Boosevelt,  it  will  be 
interesting  to  discuss  whether  Mr.  Taft  can  anticipate 
Capacity,  ^  ^^^  measure  of  success  in  his  undertaking.    Viewing 

Experience  the  situation  from  every  standpoint  he  ought  not  to 

and  Ability  contemplate  the  future  with  any  misgiving.     He  is 

equipped  with  the  three  essentials  for  success — ^ability, 
courage  and  experience.  No  one  doubts  his  ability.  From  the  day  when 
he  began  work  as  assistant  prosecuting  attorney  in  his  native  State  until 
he  achieved  the  stability  of  the  Philippine  possessions  he  demonstrated 
the  great  capacity  of  his  mind.  Courage  he  does  not  lack.  Early  in 
life,  so  the  story  goes,  he  thrashed  a  blackmailing  editor  who  slandered 
his  father  and  in  his  later  years  he  never  failed  to  express  his  con- 
victions with  equal  force,  though  perhaps  in  less  spectacular  fashion. 
As  for  experience,  what  man  in  the  United  States  has  served  in  such 
varied  capacities?  His  activities  have  been  almost  kaleidoscopic.  Prose- 
cuting attorney,  collector  of  internal  revenue,  lawyer,  solicitor-general, 
judge  upon  a  federal  circuit,  governor  of  the  Philippines,  secretary  of 
war,  adjuster  of  grave  and  delicate  international  questions,  globe-girdler 
— even  this  formidable  list  does  not  convey  an  adequate  idea  of  Mr.  Taf t^s 
accomplishments.  It  is  no  exaggeration  to  say  that  there  is  no  man  in 
public  or  private  life  in  the  United  States  so  completely  fitted  for  the 
duties  of  President  as  Mr.  Taft.  The  reins  of  government  are  not  un- 
familiar to  his  hands.  He  has  dealt  with  all  sorts  and  conditions  of 
men.  He  has  approached  public  questions  both  from  the  standpoint  of 
the  executive  and  the  judicial 

The  only  omission  in  Mr.  Taft^s  busy  life  is  a  legislative  training. 
He  has  never  served  in  any  State  or  in  the  federal  legislature.  He  has 
administered  laws  and  he  has  construed  them;  he  has  never  helped  to 
make  them.  While  this  is  true,  it  is  also  a  fact  that  he  has  been  brought 
into  close  contact  with  legislative  bodies  and  is  certainly  familiar  with 
their  point  of  view.  It  is  especially  fortunate  that  he  is  en  rapport  with 
Congress.  The  late  President  McKinley,  who  went  from  the  House  of 
Eepresentatives  into  the  White  House,  was  a  signal  example  of  a  Presi- 
dent actually  beloved  by  the  men  upon  whom  he  was  compelled  to  rely 
for  the  enactment  of  laws  which,  in  his  judgment,  were  demanded  by  the 
public  interest.  Mr.  Taft  may  not  enjoy  so  intimate  a  relation  with  Con- 
gress, but  there  is  no  gainsaying  the  fact  that  he  is  accorded  its  most  friendly 
regard.  This  is  a  factor  of  no  small  importance.  The  Democratic  party 
came  very  near  to  being  shattered  through  the  hostility  which  existed 
between  President  Cleveland  and  the  Congress  which  he  had  upon  his 


202  "^^^^^  FORUM 

hands,  to  quote  Iiis  own  sarcastic  phrase,  while  President  Booeevel^  in 
the  closing  days  of  his  administration,  was  embarrassed  by  a  Congress 
somewhat  estranged.  It  is  a  matter  of  no  small  concern,  therefore,  that 
Hr.  Taft  enters  npon  his  duties  with  the  friendly  feeling  of  Congress, 
and  it  is  safe  to  say  that,  with  his  great  tactfolness,  he  will  retain  this 
affection  until  the  end  of  his  term.  The  significance  of  this  situation  lies 
in  the  fact  that  his  recommendations  as  to  l^islation  will  recelTe  the 
thoughtful  and  considerate  attention  of  the  national  legiaUture  and  wiU^ 
so  far  as  may  be  possibly  be  enacted  into  law. 

President  Ta|t  will  summon  Congress  to  his  assistance  at  the  yery 
be^nning  of  his  administration.  That  body  will  be  called  to  meet  in 
extraordinary  session  in  the  early  part  of  the  present 
Revision  of  month.    Hr.  Taft,  in  a  special  message,  will  invite  the 

the  Tariff  attention  of  the  l^islature  to  the  necessity  for  revising 

Imminent,  the  tariff,  and  several  months  will  be  spent  in  the  con- 

sideration of  this  important  subject. 

The  changes  in  the  tariff  which  are  now  to  be  secured  have  been 
long  postponed.  The  demand  for  revision  has  been  insistent  for  many 
years,  but  the  men  who  regarded  the  present  schedules  as  the  quin- 
tessence of  perfection  have  been  able  to  neutralize  public  insistence  by  de- 
liberate inaction.  The  revisionists  won  a  signal  victory,  however,  when 
they  secured  the  adoption  of  a  plank  in  the  last  Bepublican  national  plat- 
form declaring  unequivocally  ''for  the  revision  of  the  tariff  by  a  special 
session  of  Congress  immediately  following  the  inauguration  of  the  next 
President.^^  Four  years  previously,  when  the  convention  of  1904  was  in 
session,  there  was  only  the  remotest  reference  to  possible  changes. 

Now,  however,  the  work  must  be  undertaken;  and  if  a  thorough  and 
satisfactory  result  is  not  achieved,  there  is  certain  to  be  widespread 
criticism.  The  Bepublican  doctrine  of  protection  is  that  a  tariff  shall 
be  imposed  upon  all  imported  products,  whether  of  the  factory,  farm 
or  mine,  sufficiently  great  to  equal  the  difference  between  the  cost  of 
production  abroad  and  at  home,  and  that  this  difference  should,  of 
course,  include  the  difference  between  the  higher  wages  paid  in  .this 
country  and  the  wages  paid  abroad  and  embrace  a  reasonable  profit  to 
the  American  producer.  Mr.  Taft,  who  has  been  a  consistent  tariff 
revisionist,  insists  that  these  ideal  conditions  do  not  now  exist.  *TTie 
tariff  in  a  number  of  the  schedules,*^  he  says,  "exceeds  the  difference 
between  the  cost  of  production  abroad  and  at  home,  including  a  reason- 
able profit  to  the  American  producer.  The  excess  over  that  difference 
serves  no  useful  purpose,  but  offers  a  temptation  to  those  who  would 


monopolize  the  production  and  the  sale  of  those  articles  in  this  country 
to  profit  by  the  excessive  rate.  On  the  other  hand,  there  are  other 
schedules  in  which  the  tariff  is  not  sufficiently  high  to  give  the  measure 
of  protection  which  they  should  receive  upon  Eepublican  principles,  and 
as  to  those  the  tariff  should  be  raised/^ 

Judging  from  the  experience  of  the  past,  the  natural  tendency  will 
be  to  find  a  large  number  of  these  industries  requiring  protection  and 
to  give  willing  ear  to  the  appeal  of  the  tariff-fed  monopolies  that  their 
future  existence  depends  upon  the  maintenance  of  the  high  schedules 
under  which  they  have  so  selfishly  fattened.  It  will  be  interesting  to  see 
whether  Congress  will  have  the  moral  courage  to  deprive  these  monopolies 
of  the  food  upon  which  they  have  grown  so  great.  The  opportunity  will 
certainly  present  itself.  Mr.  Taft  does  not  know  and  could  hardly  be 
expected  to  know  all  the  intricacies  of  the  manifold  schedules,  but  if  he 
will  insist  that  no  larger  measure  of  protection  be  accorded  than  is 
requisite  to  the  fair  degree  of  profit  which,  according  to  his  view,  is  the 
main  reason  for  imposing  a  tariff,  he  will  confer  a  notable  boon  upon 
the  American  people.  A  few  inquiries,  judiciously  interpolated  during 
the  framing  of  the  tariff  bill,  will  acquaint  him  with  the  basis  of  the 
proposed  legislation  and  enable  him  to  exercise  a  restraining  hand  against 
the  granting  of  excessive  privilege. 

The  result  of  the  election  plainly  demonstrated  that  organized  labor, 
as  a  body,  did  not  r^ard  Mr.  Taft  with  disfavor,  notwithstanding  the 

antagonistic  attitude  of  a  few  of  the  leaders.  Conse- 
Taft*s  Attitude  q^ently,  it  seems  almost  trite  to  say  that  organized  labor 
Toward  does  not  look  upon  Mr.  Taff s  entrance  into  the  White 

Labor  House  as  being  in  any  way  detrimental  to  its  interests. 

It  is  true  that  Mr.  Taft  is  not  a  partisan  of  the  labor 
unions.  He  has  asserted  with  brief  emphasis  that  there  is  a  large  body 
of  laborers,  skilled  and  unskilled,  who  are  not  organized  into  unions, 
but  whose  rights  under  the  law  are  exactly  the  same  as  those  of  the 
union  men  and  are  to  be  protected  with  the  same  care  and  watchfulness. 
Any  one  familiar  with  his  judicial  decisions  recognizes  that  this  spirit 
of  equal  justice  to  all  is  uppermost  in  Mr.  Taft's  mind.  Such  legislation 
as  he  may  recommend  will,  therefore,  be  in  the  interest  of  all  labor  and 
not  for  the  especial  benefit  of  such  working  men  as  may  hold  a  member- 
ship card  in  a  union. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  but  Uttle  remains  in  the  way  of  labor  legislation 
which  Congress  is  likely  to  enact,  for  it  may  be  taken  for  granted  that 
the  extreme  demands  insisted  upon  by  organized  labor  will  not  be  en- 


204  THE  FORUM 

acted  into  law.  There  is  alreadj  a  sUtnte  allowing  the  onployee  to 
recover  damages  even  if  he  is  somewhat  n^gent;  tbe  d^  hour  law 
for  government  employees  and  applying  also  to  goremment  oonstmction 
has  been  in  operation  for  some  years;  compensation  for  injury  to  govern- 
ment employees  has  already  been  provided  for,  and,  last  but  not  least. 
Congress  has  compelled  the  railroads  to  install  safety  appliances  for  the 
protection  of  train  men.  In  addition  to  these  laws,  which  Hr.  Taft 
favorably  regards,  he  will  support  l^;islation  designed  to  afford  notice 
and  hearing  before  the  issuance  of  an  injunction.  He  also  declared  him- 
self in  favor  of  a  law  which  shall  exactly  define  the  rights  of  both  parties 
in  a  labor  controversy.  He  is  also  willing  that  any  person  charged  with 
the  violation  of  an  order  of  injunction  shall  have  the  right  under  law 
to  appeal  to  some  judge  other  than  the  one  who  issued  the  injunction 
for  a  trial  of  the  case.  '1  admit,''  said  Mr.  Taft,  ^^that  there  is  a  very 
popular  feeling  that  in  contempt  proceedings,  and  the  very  name  of  the 
proceedings  suggests  it,  the  judge  issuing  the  injunction  has  a  per- 
sonal sensitiveness  in  respect  to  its  violation  and  therefore  he  does  not 
bring  to  the  trial  of  the  issue  presented  by  the  charge  of  contempt  of 
his  order  the  calm,  judicial  mind  which  insures  justice.'' 

These  things  Mr.  Taft  will  approve;  but  all  heaven  and  earth  could 
not  bring  him  to  believe  that  it  would  be  wise  to  institute  jury  trials  in 
cases  where  contempt  of  court  is  charged.  This  is  one  demand  of  labor 
that  he  will  not  bring  to  the  attention  of  Congress  with  favorable  en- 
dorsement. He  regards  the  proposition  as  the  most  insidious  attack 
itpon  the  judicial  system  ever  made  in  the  history  of  this  country;  and 
any  one  who  knows  Mr.  Taft's  supreme  regard  for  the  courts  knows  that 
W  would  sooner  suffer  the  loss  of  his  right  arm  than  contribute,  even 
Mtrectly,  to  anything  which  could  lessen  the  authority  of  the  judges 

^^•Aiag  in  general  terms,  the  incoming  administration  will  be  less 

"^^-mm  ttian  the  one  which  is  just  closing.    While  similar  in  many 

respects,  being  alike  in  their  devotion  to  high  ideals 

and  in  their  courageous  grappling  with  great  and 

Jrodblesome  problems,  Mr.  Roosevelt  and  Mr.  Taft  are 

of  \S^  different  temperament     The  one  is  impnkiTe 

praduction^'^*^  *^®  ^^^^^  *®  judicial  and  placid.    One 

Vmeriean  prodn^C   ^*^  *^  ^"°'  ^"^^  ^  ^^  P^**  ^ 

oae,  but  offerB^aT^^®  reverberation,  while  the  otiwr 

^T  instance,  rushing  mto  a 


troversy  in  the  fashion  which,  more  than  once,  has  attracted  the  attention 
of  the  country  dnring  the  past  seven  years.  He  has  the  legal  mind, 
which  leads  him  to  weigh  carefully  what  he  does  and  says,  although  when 
his  decision  has  been  reached  there  is  the  full  measure  of  determination 
necessary  to  carry  his  purpose  into  full  effect.  Mr.  Eoosevelt  and  Mr. 
Taft  may  both  reach  the  same  conclusion;  but  Mr.  Boosevelt  arriyes 
at  his  judgment  by  one  spectacular  and  even  hazardous  leap,  while  Mr. 
Taft  approaches  his  decision  by  carefully  reasoning  out  each  step  of 
his  progress.  The  two  men  have,  in  fact,  distinct  temperaments,  al^ 
though,  in  practical  result,  they  may  both  accomplish  great  work.  In 
the  long  run,  Mr.  Taft  will  make  fewer  mistakes. 

There  is  another  trait  of  Mr.  Taff  s  character  which  deserves  con- 
sideration. His  geniality  is  known  to  all  who  have  met  him.  He  has 
a  keen  sense  of  humor — ^the  saving  grace  of  humor,  as  Emerson  says — 
and  his  laugh  is  hearty  and  sincere.  At  the  same  time  he  is  never 
undignified.  He  is  pleasant  and  companionable  always,  but  even  as  a 
private  citizen  in  the  circle  of  his  most  familiar  friends  he  does  not 
lose  self-control.  He  is  not  as  strenuous  in  his  devotion  to  athletic  sports 
as  Mr.  Boosevelt,  contenting  himself  with  golf  and  preferring  the  com- 
fort of  the  tonneau  to  the  inconvenience  of  the  saddle.  He  is  a  ready 
writer  and  speaker,  and  his  voice  has  a  magnetic  quality  which  appeals 
to  the  ear.  In  his  manner  he  is  democratic  and  approachable.  Above 
all,  he  is  possessed  of  tact  and  common-sense.  The  latter,  after  all,  is  a 
prime  requisite.  In  the  solution  of  the  many  problems  which  are  pre- 
sented to  the  chief  executive,  right  judgment  is  absolutely  necessary;  and 
this  characteristic  is,  after  all,  founded  upon  the  possession,  only  too 
rare,  of  a  brain  which  is  active,  clear  and  calm.  Mr.  Taft  has  a  brain 
of  this  quality.  His  mental  vision  pierces  quickly  through  the  fog  and 
mist  of  abstract  and  abstruse  questions  and  sees  the  substance  lying 
beyond.  He  does  not  worry  unnecessarily,  because  he  is  naturally  opti- 
mistic; and  yet  he  does  not  deal  superficially  with  affairs  nor  lack  in 
studious  consideration. 

There  is  every  reason  to  believe,  therefore,  that  the  administration  of 
Mr.  Taft  will  mean  much  in  the  advancement  of  the  country.  He  has 
been  tried  and  not  found  wanting;  and  inasmuch  as  he  has  done  well  in 
all  the  lesser  things,  there  ought  to  be  no  misgiving  as  to  his  creditable 
and  safe  service  in  the  future. 

^  Henry  Litchfield  West. 


GommiBsioner  of  Education  for  Porto  Rico,  1904-07 

Whbnbvkb,  as  a  result  of  war  and  conquest,  two  distinct  races  with 
different  tongues^  traditions,  and  mental  habits  find  themselves  linked 
together  as  one  body  politic  in  the  same  region,  the  language  question 
in  the  public  schools  is  a  source  of  vexation  and  infinite  irritation.  A 
happy  combination  of  circumstances  has  shorn  the  problem  in  Porto 
Bico  of  many  of  the  difficulties  which  usually  surround  it 

Porto  Bico,  indeed,  fell  into  our  hands  as  the  result  of  war,  but  im- 
resistingly  and  without  stirring  up  the  passions  which  war  commonly 
engenders.  Among  the  people  of  the  Island,  the  American  troops  were 
deemed  not  conquerors  but  liberators.  American  administration  of  civil 
affairs  followed  as  a  natural  consequence  and  was  adopted  without  serious 
protest.  It  is  undoubtedly  true  that  the  relatively  large  share  of  the 
American  element  in  the  insidar  administration  is  not  welcome  to  all, 
and  that  many  of  the  people  look  upon  us  as  intruders.  One  of  the 
leading  men  of  the  Island  said  recently,  in  a  public  address,  'There  is  a 
patriotism  of  the  heart— of  sentiment— which  resents  the  presence  of  the 
stranger  on  Porto  Bican  soil,  but  there  is  a  higher  patriotism  of  the 
mind — of  reason — ^which  recognizes  the  necessity  of  American  sov- 
ereignty for  the  well-being  of  the  Island.^*  This  intellectual  conviction, 
which  in  the  long  run  triumphs  over  the  temporary  ebullitions  of  hos- 
tility, which  race  differences  inevitably  beget,  has  been  a  primary  factor  in 
smoothing  the  way  for  the  American  administration  in  school  matters, 
as  in  everything  else. 

The  spirit  of  the  administratiou,  though  oft-times  misunderstood, 
has  on  the  whole  compelled  the  respect  and  sometimes  the  admiration  of 
the  Porto  Bican  people.  That  there  is  any  deep-seated  affection  for  us 
among  them  would  be  absurd  to  assert  and  probably  most  foolish  to  ex- 
pect. Affection  between  different  races  is  a  rare  phenomenon  in  history 
if  it  has  ever  occurred.  A  mutual  respect  which  bears  fruit  in  mutual 
forbearance  is  the  limit  to  which  the  relations  of  two  races  can  be  ex- 
pected to  go. 

These  general  considerations  aid  in  explaining  the  evolution  of  the 
language  question  in  the  schools  of  Porto  Bico,  and  find  practical  ex- 
emplification in  this  phase  of  our  administration. 

American  institutions  were  welcomed  by  the  people  of  Porto  Bico, 
not,  of  course,  because  they  were  American,  but  because  they  were  demo- 


cratic.  In  a  vague,  general  way  they  admired  the  nation's  care  for  the 
children  in  its  schools,  which  is  so  striking  a  feature  of  our  political 
life.  A  reorganization  of  the  school  system  in  accord  with  American 
institutions  was  one  of  the  first  things  looked  for  in  the  new  order  of 
things.  The  military  government  recognized  the  need  and  made  im- 
portant beginnings,  which  were  continued  by  the  civil  administration 
established  in  1900. 

It  was  obvious  that  political  conditions  had  brought  a  new  factor 
into  the  school  situation,  namely,  the  English  language.  A  place  must 
be  created  for  it  in  the  school  curriculum,  but  what  should  the  place  be? 
Upon  what  principles  should  it  be  based  and  what  purposes  should  the 
new  instruction  pursue? 

No  one  dreamed  of  displacing  the  Spanish  language  either  in  the 
schools  or  in  the  life  of  the  people.  As  Porto  Bico  is  already  densely 
populated,  and  as  it  cannot  be  expected  that  the  population  originating 
in  the  United  States  would  ever  be  numerically  important,  it  would  be 
practically  impossible  for  the  English  language  to  crowd  out  the  Spanish. 
Moreover,  it  would  be  highly  imdesirable.  No  reasonable  ground  could 
be  brought  forward  for  depriving  the  people  of  their  heritage  of  the 
Spanish  tongue,  with  all  its  grace  and  beauty,  and  its  adaptation  to  the 
daily  needs  of  a  people  of  an  imaginative  and  poetic  temperament.  Yet 
the  new  relations  with  the  United  States,  destined  to  grow  more  and 
more  intimate,  made  it  highly  desirable  that  the  educated  classes  should 
use  both  languages  with  equal  facility.  Commercial,  political,  and  social 
intercourse  with  the  people  of  the  United  States  will  be  greatiy  facilitated 
by  a  general  knowledge  of  English.  Nor  can  it  be  doubl^  that  the 
attainment  of  a  bi-lingual  state  would  contribute  powerfully  to  the  in- 
tellectual progress  of  the  people.  The  possession  of  more  than  one  idiom 
is  an  element  of  culture  not  to  be  despised,  however  imperfect  may  be 
the  comprehension  of  the  acquired  tongue. 

If  these  results  can  be  obtained  it  must  be  largely  through  the  schools. 
They  are  the  standard  bearers  of  the  new  sovereignty,  called  to  the  im- 
portant duty  of  bringing  to  the  people  of  Porto  Eico  a  knowledge  of  the 
language  of  the  United  States,  and  with  it,  of  its  history,  its  institutions 
and  its  ideals.  If  we  may  borrow  a  phrase  from  current  shoptalk  in 
school  circles,  the  object  of  English  instruction  is  in  the  highest  degree 
that  of  co-ordination.  It  has  also  that  function  in  a  humble  and  more 
practical  way — ^namely,  that  of  co-ordinating  the  school  instruction  of 
Porto  Bico  with  the  institutions  of  higher  learning  in  the  United  States. 
Colleges  and  professional  schools  do  not  exist  in  Porto  Bico ;  and  in  this 
transition  period  of  the  Island^s  development  it  is  perhaps  as  well  that 



they  do  not,  since  students  who  go  to  the  States  gain  not  only  the  ad- 
vantages of  a  better  equipment  than  the  Island  could  hope  to  afford,  but 
also  first-hand  acquaintance  with  our  institutions.  To  do  this  without 
loss  of  time  they  must  be  well  grounded  in  the  English  language  before 
they  leave  the  Island. 

The  actual  development  of  English  instruction  in  the  schools  of 
Porto  Bico  is  interesting  because  it  has  not  been  a  forced  growth,  but  a 
natural  and  unconscious  evolution.  The  outcome  is  the  result  of  the 
competition  of  different  methods.  Such  competition  was  not  planned  by 
the  school  authorities,  but  grew  up  without  their  being  conscious  of  its 
significance.  Six  or  seven  years  ago  it  would  have  seemed  an  utterly 
foolish  prophecy  that  in  the  year  1908  practically  all  the  schools  of  the 
towns  and  villages  would  be  using  the  EngUsh  language  as  the  medium 
of  instruction — ^and  yet  this  has  come  to  pass  quietly,  unobtrusively,  and 
with  the  full  approval  and  consent  of  the  Porto  Bican  people. 

Our  first  school  efforts  in  the  Island  may  be  described  as  an  attempt 
to  Americanize  the  Spanish  school.  We  took  from  it  little  by  little 
everything  except  its  language.  The  books  we  used  were  American  text- 
books translated — and  sometimes  very  badly  translated — ^into  Spanish. 
We  placed  everywhere  American  teachers  as  supervisors.  At  the  outset 
they  knew  little  Spanish,  comprehended  but  dimly  what  was  going  on 
around  them,  and  not  infrequently  made  themselves  ludicrous.  But  tEe 
idea  was  a  good  one  and  the  execution  of  it  improved  as  the  years  went 
on.  These  American  supervisors  were  generally  young  and  vigorous 
men,  trained  in  our  public  schools  of  the  States,  sometimes  the  graduates 
of  Normal  Schools,  more  frequently  of  colleges.  In  later  years  they  have 
been  appointed  only  after  a  year  or  more  residence  on  the  Island,  and 
have  as  a  rule  acquired  such  command  of  the  Spanish  language  as  the 
needs  of  the  position  required.  Their  principal  work  has  been  to  infuse 
into  the  schools  the  methods  and  spirit  of  the  American  pubUc  schools. 
It  has  been  said  of  them  that  they  did  not  know  the  Island  and  its  needs, 
and  in  some  few  cases  this  may  have  been  true — but  it  is  equally  true 
that  they  knew  schools  in  a  sense  that  no  Porto  Bican  could  have  known 
them  a  few  years  ago. 

To  the  supervisor  we  joined  the  teacher  of  English.  Wherever  there 
was  a  group  of  four  or  more  classes,  an  American  teacher  was  sent  to 
teach  the  English  language.  Every  day,  he  or  she,  for  the  American 
woman  teacher  has  had  a  large  share  in  the  work,  met  the  several  classes 
and  gave  them  lessons  in  English,  and  once  a  week  taught  the  teachers 
assembled  from  the  entire  district.  The  work  was  hard  and  often  un- 
profitable.   Teachers  came  to  us  with  excellent  records  from  the  States, 


who  often  fizzled  out  completely  when  it  came  to  the  task  of  teaching 
their  mother  tongue  to  foreigners.  Sometimes  we  failed  to  get  the  best 
teachers.  The  way  was  long^  the  compensation  scanty^  and  the  oppor- 
tunity, except  when  it  appealed  to  some  adventurous  spirits  eager  to 
escape  the  humdrum  of  life  at  home,  did  not  attract  the  best  teachers 
from  the  States.  Sometimes,  too,  the  adventurous  spirits  drooped  when 
they  found  that  they  had  only  exchanged  one  monotony  for  another,  and 
left  us  often  at  the  point  when  their  services  were  beginning  to  be 

Despite  all  discouragements  the  teachers  of  English  did  a  good  work. 
The  bright  spot  was  the  progress  made  by  the  Porto  Bican  teachers.  The 
translation  method  of  instruction  used  universally  at  the  outset  was 
naturally  more  effective  with  these  adult  scholars  than  with  the  imma- 
ture pupils  of  the  schools.  Many  a  teacher  of  English  can  look  back 
with  pride  to  some  bright  teachers  among  the  Porto  Bicans  who  gained  a 
knowledge  of  English  from  which  sprang  lasting  friendships.  This 
work  was  destihed  to  have  good  fruit.  In  a  vague  way  it  was  felt  that 
the  Porto  Bican  children  could  best  be  reached  through  their  own  teach- 
ers, but  it  may  well  be  doubted  whether  the  school  authorities  who  es- 
tablished this  system  realized  that  in  a  few  years  it  would  give  such 
splendid  results.  They  discounted  the  zeal,  the  industry  and  the  capacity 
of  the  better  class  of  Porto  Bican  teachers.  Whatever  credit  is  assigned 
to  the  Americans  who  as  supervisors  and  teachers  directed  the  work,  it 
would  be  unjust  not  to  give  due  meed  of  praise  to  the  Porto  Bican  teach- 
ers under  whose  conduct  so  much  advance  has  been  made  in  the  schools 
of  Porto  Bico. 

But  our  efforts  to  teach  English  to  the  pupils  under  this  system  bore 
no  fruit  commensurate  with  the  effort.  It  is  true  that  we  abandoned 
translations  and  gave  our  teaching  by  the  direct  and  natural  method. 
But  the  teaching  came  but  once  or  twice  a  day,  and  remained  a  thing 
apart  from  the  general  routine  of  the  school.  It  was  practically  an 
''extra,''  as  the  boarding  schools  are  prone  to  designate  music  and  the 
like.  The  attempt  to  graft  English  instruction  upon  a  Spanish  system 
of  schools  led  in  short  to  little  practical  knowledge  of  the  English  lan- 
guage. It  had  its  place  as  a  study,  but  it  was  not  to  the  children  a  living 

The  Americanized  Spanish  school — ^for  we  had  made  such  funda- 
mental changes  in  methods  that  the  term  is  a  proper  one — found  a  com- 
petitor in  the  American  school.  We  must  now  trace  the  origin  of  these 
American  schools  taught  wholly  in  the  English  language.  In  following 
out  the  policy  of  furnishing  a  preparation  for  those  pupils  who  wished 




to  pursne  advanced  studies  in  the  United  States^  high  schook  were  estab- 
lished in  San  Jnan^  Ponce  and  Mayaguez.  In  them  English  had  for 
practical  reasons  a  much  larger  scope  than  in  the  elementary  schools. 
In  the  first  instance,  there  was  a  Spanish  section  and  an  English  section 
in  these  schools.  The  Spanish  section  was  soon  dropped  and  English 
became  the  exclusive. language  of  the  high  schools.  As  feeders  for  the 
high  school,  graded  schools  were  established  taught  wholly  in  English  by 
American  teachers.  They  soon  come  to  be  known  in  the  community  as 
American  schools.  From  the  outset  they  were  very  popular  and  there  was 
always  great  pressure  for  admittance  to  them.  There  was  a  large  body 
of  parents  ambitious  to  have  their  children  taught  in  the  English  Ian* 
guage  and  appreciative  of  the  advantages  which  would  accrue  from  a 
larger  command  of  that  tongue  than  would  be  gained  in  the  other  schools. 
Spanish  schools  and  English  schools  existed  side  by  side  and  the  people 
voluntarily  chose  the  English  schools.  This  is  the  significant  fact  in  the 
evolution  of  the  language  question  in  Porto  Bico  and  the  steps  by  which 
the  exception  became  the  rule  are  not  uninteresting. 

In  the  capital  city  of  San  Juan  the  first  step  was  taken  in  1903. 
The  graded  school  attached  to  the  high  school  was  unable  to  accommo- 
date all  the  children  who  wanted  to  enter  it.  The  school  board  of  the 
city,  of  its  own  motion,  proposed  that  another  American  school  be  estab- 
lished. As  funds  were  low  in  the  insular  treasury,  it  offered  to  pay  from 
its  own  funds  the  salaries  of  half  the  teachers.  The  teachers  were 
equally  divided  between  Porto  Bicans  and  Americans.  The  Porto  Bican 
teachers  selected  had  been  in  the  United  States  and  had  acquired  an 
excellent  command  of  English.  They  were  the  first  Porto  Bicans  au- 
thorized to  teach  in  the  language,  but  they  were  exceptionally  qualified. 
The  experiment  worked  well.  In  the  city  of  Ponce  there  had  been  a 
like  demand  upon  the  resources  and  capacity  of  the  American  school. 
It  was  overcrowded  and  there  were  many  who  felt  themselves  aggrieved 
by  being  refused  admittance.  They  had,  too,  a  real  grievance,  since  they 
were  not  so  well  prepared  for  high  school  work  as  those  who  attended  the 
American  school.  Such  distinctions  led  to  bitterness,  and  the  Superin- 
tendent of  Schools  in  1904  conceived  the  bold  plan  of  placing  all  the 
schools  of  the  city  on  an  English  basis.  He  assured  the  Board  of  Edu- 
cation that  he  had  several  Porto  Bican  teachers  ready  to  give  their  les- 
sons in  English  and  that  others  could  soon  be  trained  to  do  so.  With 
some  misgivings,  he  was  allowed  to  try  his  experiment,  and  the  fall  of 
1904  opened  with  all  the  children  of  Ponce  learning  their  daily  tasks  in 
the  language  of  the  United  States.  Such  an  experiment  was  bound  to 
have  weak  spots  and  there  were  certain  defects  of  organization  which 


subsequent  experience  has  corrected.  But  by  and  large  it  was  a  splendid 
success.  It  was  indeed  feared  that  the  learning  of  a  new  idiom  would 
put  the  children  back  a  year  or  more  in  their  studies^  but  experience 
showed  this  fear  to  be  groundless.  The  effort  of  attention  necessary 
to  understand  the  language  resulted  in  increased  concentration  on  the 
subject-matter  of  instruction  and  pupils  advanced  normally  in  their 
grades.  Most  significant  was  the  demonstration  that  many  of  the  Porto 
Bican  teachers  had  made  sufiBcient  advance  in  English  to  use  that  lan- 
guage as  a  medium  of  instruction.  The  seeds  planted  by  an  earlier 
administration  had  indeed  borne  fruit.  Careful  supervision  was  more 
necessary  than  before^  and  heroic  effort  had  indeed  to  be  made  to  elimi- 
nate faults  of  pronunciation  and  enunciation  among  the  new  teachers. 
But  they  bore  the  test  splendidly^  and  those  who  visit  the  schools  of 
Ponce  to-day  marvel  at  the  results. 

In  the  same  year  San  Juan  adopted  English  as  the  school  language 
in  half  of  its  schools,  and  in  the  following  year  in  all  of  them.  A  more 
rational  organization  of  the  grades  attached  to  the  high  schools  was 
adopted,  those  grades  taught  by  American  teachers  becoming  grammar 
schools.  Instruction  in  the  first  year  was  given  generally  in  Spanish, 
but  in  all  the  higher  grades  in  English.  Tip  to  the  fifth  grade  the  work 
was  entrusted  to  Porto  Bican  teachers ;  in  the  upper  grades,  requiring  a 
more  extensive  vocabulary,  American  teachers  being  employed.  Special 
care  was  now  given  to  Spanish  as  a  subject  of  study  and  special  teachers 
of  that  language  were  employed  to  give  instruction  in  those  grades  where 
the  regular  work  was  in  charge  of  American  teachers. 

The  transformation  in  the  two  chief  towns  of  the  Island  was  com- 
pleted in  September,  1905.  Little  by  little  other  towns  followed  as 
opportunity  offered.  The  central  administration  was  besieged  by  propo- 
sitions from  superintendents  and  school  boards  to  place  the  schools  on 
an  English  basis.  But  haste  was  made  slowly.  The  authorization  could 
not  be  given  until  teachers  were  available  for  the  purpose.  Examina- 
tions were  instituted  to  test  the  fitness  of  the  Porto  Bican  teachers  to  do 
their  work  in  English.  An  astonishing  number  qualified  for  this  work. 
Many  of  them  are  of  the  younger  generation,  graduates  of  the  American 
schools  and  of  the  Insular  normal  school,  but  there  is  a  very  considerable 
quota  of  the  older  teachers  who  adapted  themselves  to  this  new  develop- 

As  a  result  of  these  changes  the  school  system  in  the  towns  and  vil- 
lages has  been  wholly  transformed.  The  American  school,  with  the 
help  of  the  Porto  Bican  teachers,  has  practically  crowded  out  the  Ameri- 
canized Spanish  school.    In  1905  there  were  74  schools  taught  in  Eng- 

212  '^^^^  FORUM 

liflh;  in  1906^  160;  and  in  1907,  389.  In  the  meantime  the  nnmber 
of  American  teachen  has  diminished  ratlier  than  increased.  The  mam 
work  has  been  accomplished  by  the  Porto  Bican  teachers,  of  whom  280 
were  giving  their  regnlar  work  in  the  English  language  in  1907.  As 
there  were  about  500  graded  schools  in  the  Island,  English  has  become 
the  dominant  language  of  the  town  sdiools.  Not  the  least  significant 
feature  of  this  remarkable  development  has  been  the  fact  that  it  has  be^ 
accomplished  with  the  full  approbation  and  consent  of  the  Porto  Bican 
people.  This  finds  expression  in  bills  introduced  in  the  House  of  dele- 
gates fixing  dates  when  all  the  schools  shall  be  taught  exdusiyely  in  the 
English  language.  Porto  Bican  teachers  authorized  to  teach  in  the  Eng- 
lish language  are  a  separate  cat^ory  of  teachers.  The  assignment  of 
teachers  to  a  given  locality  is  on  petition  of  the  local  board.  The  central 
administration  is  powerless  to  impose  this  form  of  instruction  upon  any 
locality  which  does  not  want  it.  It  cannot  be  introduced  except  upon 
local  demand.  But  that  demand  in  the  last  three  years  has  been  insistent 
and  gratifying,  as  is  the  progress  recorded;  it  would  have  been  still 
greater  had  the  central  administration  been  able  to  comply  more  fully 
with  local  wishes. 

If  the  object  of  our  administration  of  our  dependencies  is  to  bring 
them  in  closer  touch  with  the  nation  at  large,  may  we  not  regard  the 
evolution  of  the  school  language  in  Porto  Bico  as  a  singularly  happy 
contribution  to  this  end?  And  in  so  believing  we  need  not  pufE  our- 
selves up  by  asserting  that  it  is  due  to  any  statesmanlike  foresight  We 
simply  had  the  good  sense  not  to  force  matters,  and  scarcely  realizing  it, 
we  offered  to  the  people  of  Porto  Bico  a  choice.  The  people  of  Porto 
Bico  had  good  sense  to  make  a  wise  choice. 

Boland  P.  FaJhner. 



Thb  clever  title.  Plays  Pleasant  and  Unpleasant,  which  Mr.  Bernard 
Shaw  selected  for  the  earliest  issue  of  his  dramatic  writings,  suggests  a 
theme  of  criticism  that  Mr.  Shaw,  in  his  lengthy  pref- 
The  aces,  might  profitably  have  considered  if  he  had  not 

Pursuit  of  preferred  to  devote  his  entire  space  to  a  discussion  of 

Happiness  i^  q^^  abilities.    In  explanation  of  his  title  the  author 

stated  only  that  he  labelled  his  first  three  plays  Unpleas- 
ant for  the  reason  that  "their  dramatic  power  is  used  to  force  the  spec- 
tator to  face  unpleasant  facts."  This  sentence,  of  course^  is  not 
a  definition,  since  it  merely  repeats  the  word  to  be  explained;  and  there- 
fore, if  we  wish  to  find  out  whether  or  not  an  unpleasant  play  is  of  any 
real  service  in  the  theatre,  we  shall  have  to  do  some  thinking  of  our  own. 

It  is  an  axiom  that  aJl  things  in  the  universe  are  interesting.  The 
word  interesting  means  capable  of  awakening  some  activity  of  human 
mind;  and  there  is  no  imaginable  topic,  whether  pleasant  or  unpleasant, 
which  is  not,  in  one  way,  or  another,  capable  of  this  effect.  But  the  ac- 
tivities of  the  human  mind  are  various,  and  there  are  therefore  several* 
different  sorts  of  interest.  The  activity  of  mind  awakened  by  music  over 
waters  is  very  different  from  that  awakened  by  the  bjnomial  theorem. 
Some  things  interest  the  intellect,  others  the  emotions;  and  it  is  only 
things  of  prime  importance  that  interest  them  both.  Now  if  we  com- 
pare the  interest  of  pleasant  and  unpleasant  topics,  we  shall  see  at  once 
that  the  activity  of  mind  awakened  by  the  former  is  more  complete  than 
that  awakened  by  the  latter.  A  pleasant  topic  not  only  interests  the  in- 
tellect but  also  elicits  a  response  from  the  emotions ;  but  most  unpleasant 
topics  are  interesting  to  the  intellect  alone.  In  so  far  as  the  emotions 
respond  at  all  to  an  unpleasant  topic,  they  respond  merely  with  a  nega- 
tive activity.  Regarding  a  thing  which  is  unpleasant,  the  healthy  mind 
will  feel  aversion,  or  else  will  merely  think  about  it  with  no  feeling 
whatsoever.  But  regarding  a  thing  which  is  pleasant,  the  mind  may  be 
stirred  through  the  entire  gamut  of  positive  emotions,  rising  ultimately 
to  that  supreme  activity  which  is  Love.  This  is,  of  course,  the  philo- 
sophic reason  why  the  thinkers  of  pleasant  thoughts  and  dreamers  of 
beautiful  dreams  stand  higher  in  history  than  those  who  have  thought 
impleasantness  and  have  imagined  woe. 

Returning  now  to  that  clever  title  of  Mr.  Shaw's,  we  may  define  an 
unpleasant  play  as  one  which  interests  the  intellect  without  at  the  same 

214  THE  FORUM 

time  awakening  a  positive  lesponse  from  the  emotions;  and  we  may  de- 
fine a  pleasant  play  as  one  which  not  only  stimulates  thought  but  also 
elicits  sympathy.  To  any  one  who  has  thoroughly  considered  the  con- 
ditions governing  theatric  art  it  should  be  evident  a  priori  that  pleasant 
plays  are  better  suited  for  service  in  the  theatre  than  unpleasant  plays. 
This  truth  is  clearly  illustrated  by  the  facts  of  Mr.*  Shaw's  career.  As 
a  matter  of  history^  it  will  be  remembered  that  his  vogue  in  our  theatres 
has  been  confined  almost  entirely  to  his  pleasant  plays.  All  four  of 
them  have  enjoyed  a  profitable  run;  and  it  is  to  Candida,  the  best  of 
his  pleasant  plays,  that,  ?n  America  at  least,  he  owes  his  fame.  Of  the 
three  unpleasant  plays.  The  Philanderer  has  never  been  produced  at  all; 
Widower's  Houses  has  been  given  only  in  a  series  of  special  mating; 
and  Mrs.  Warren's  Profession,  though  it  was  enormously  advertised  by 
the  fatuous  interference  of  the  police,  failed  to  interest  tiie  public  when 
ultimately  it  was  offered  for  a  run. 

Mrs.  Warren's  Profession  is  just  as  interesting  to  the  thoughtful 
reader  as  Candida.  It  is  built  with  the  same  technical  efficiency,  and 
written  with  the  same  agility  and  wit;  it  is  just  as  sound  and  true,  and 
therefore  just  as  moral;  and  as  a  criticism,  not  so  much  of  life  as  of 
society,  it  is  indubitably  more  important.  Why  then  is  Candida  a  better 
work?  The  reason  is  that  the  unpleasant  play  is  interesting  merely  to 
the  intellect  and  leaves  the  audience  cold,  whereas  the  pleasant  play  is 
interesting  also  to  the  emotions  and  stirs  the  audience  to  sympathy.  It 
is  possible  for  the  public  to  feel  sorry  for  Morell;  it  is  even  possible  for 
them  to  feel  sorry  for  Marchbanks:  but  it  is  absolutely  impossible  for 
them  to  feel  sorry  for  Mrs.  Warrrai.  The  multitude  instinctively  demand 
an  opportunity  to  sympathize  with  the  characters  presented  in  the 
theatre.  Since  the  drama  is  a  democratic  art,  and  the  dramatist  is  not 
the  monarch  but  the  servant  of  the  public,  the  voice  of  the  people  should, 
in  this  matter  of  pleasant  and  unpleasant  plays,  be  considered  the  voice 
of  the  gods.  This  thesis  seems  to  me  axiomatic  and  unsusceptible  of 
argument.  Yet  since  it  is  continually  denied  by  the  TJplifters,  who  per- 
sist in  looking  down  upon  the  public  and  decrying  the  wisdom  of  the 
many,  it  may  be  necessary  to  explain  the  eternal  principle  upon  which 
it  is  based. 

The  truth  must  be  self-evident  that  theatre-goers  are  endowed  with 
a  certain  inalienable  right, — ^namely,  the  pursuit  of  happiness.  The  pur- 
suit of  happiness  is  the  most  important  thing  in  the  world,  because  it  is 
nothing  less  than  an  endeavor  to  imdergtand  and  to  appreciate  the  true, 
the  beautiful,  and  the  good.  Happiness  comes  of  loving  things  which  are 
worthy;  a  man  is  happy  in  proportion  to  the  number  of  things  which 


he  has  learned  to  love;  and  he,  of  all  men,  is  most  happy  who  loveth 
best  all  things  both  great  and  small.    For  happiness  is  the  feeling  of 
harmony  between  a  man  and  his  surroundings,  the  sense  of  being  at 
home  in  the  universe  and  brotherly  toward  all  worthy  things  that  are. 
The  pursuit  of  happiness  is  simply  a  continual  endeavor  to  discover 
new  things  that  are  worthy,  to  the  end  that  they  may  waken  love  within 
us  and  thereby  lure  us  loftier  toward  an  ultimate  absolute  awareness 
of  truth  and  belLuty.    It  is  in  this  simple,  sane  pursuit  that  people  go 
to  the  theatre.    The  important  thing  about  the  public  is  that  it  has  a 
large  and  longing  heart.    That  heart  demands  that  sympathy  be  wakened 
in  it,  and  will  not  be  satisfied  with  merely  intellectual  discussion  of  un- 
sympathetic things.    It  is  therefore  the  duty,  as  well  as  the  privilege, 
of  the  dramatist  to  set  before  the  public  incidents  which  may  awaken 
sympathy  and  characters  which  may  be  loved.    He  is  the  most  important 
artist  in  the  theatre  who  gives  the  public  most  to  care  about.    This  is 
the  reason  why  Joseph  Jefferson's  Rip  Van  Winkle  must  be  rated  as  the 
greatest  creation  of  the  American  stage.    The  play  was  shabby  as  a  work 
of  art,  and  there  was  nothing  even  in  the  character  to  think  about;  but 
every  performance  of  the  part  left  thousands  happier,  because  their  lives 
had  been  enriched  with  a  new  memory  that  made  their  hearts  grow  warm 
with  sympathy  and  large  with  love. 

Mr.  Eugene  Walter  is  gifted  with  undeniable  ability  as  a  maker  of 
plays.    His  present  piece.  The  Easiest  Way,  fulfills  the  technical  promise 
of  Paid  in  Full,  and  is,  according  to  artistic  standards, 
"The  ^^®  ^^  *^®  ^^*  plays  of  the  year.    It  is,  however,  an 

Easiest  unpleasant  play,  and  necessitates  the  question  whether 

Way"  Mr.  Walter's  abilities  might  not  have  been  more  profit- 

ably employed  in  handling  material  of  more  importance. 

The  heroine,  Laura  Murdock,  is  a  young  woman  devoid  of  moral 
consciousness  and  therefore  empty  of  emotion.  She  drifts  through  life 
along  the  line  of  least  resistance.  After  a  somewhat  promiscuous  past 
she  becomes  the  mistress  of  Willard  Brockton,  a  man  of  wealth  and 
weariness.  Brockton,  like  herself,  is  incapable  of  emotion.  He  keeps 
her,  not  because  he  loves  her,  but  because  she  looks  ornamental  beside 
him  at  midnight  suppers.  A  young  newspaper  reporter,  John  Madison 
by  name,  gets  an  idea  into  his  head  that  he  would  like  to  marry  Laura. 
He  knows  all  about  her  past  and  present  life;  but  his  infatuation  leads 
him  to  believe  that  Laura  would  make  for  him  the  best  of  wives,  for  the 
reason  that  he  himself  has  lived  a  careless  and  profligate  youth.  The 
bland  infatuation  of  Madison  kindles  within  Laura  a  sensation  which 

218  THE  FORUM 

she  thmks  to  be  emotion.  She  considers  herself  in  love,  and  states  the 
case  to  Brockton.  Brockton,  who  does  not  love  her,  is  incapable  of  jeal- 
ousy. In  a  worldly-wise  manner  he  advises  Madison  that  the  lady  is 
expensive  and  is  scarcely  the  sort  of  person  to  make  a  help-meet  for  a 
man  without  money;  but  when  Madison  announces  his  intention  to  make 
a  fortune  while  the  lady  waits  for  him,  Brockton  agrees  to  for^o  his 
patronage  of  Laura  and  to  withdraw  from  the  triangular  situation.  He 
promises,  however,  that  if  Laura,  of  her  own  free  will,  returns  to  him, 
he  will  immediately  inform  Madison  of  her  reversion  to  type. 

Laura,  left  to  her  own  devices,  fails  to  earn  her  living  and  is  soon 
reduced  to  the  verge  of  starvation.  In  despair  she  follows  the  easiest  way 
and  returns  to  Brockton.  He  makes  her  write  a  letter  informing  Madi- 
son of  her  resumption  of  the  old  relation;  but  this  letter  she  has  not 
sufficient  strength  of  character  to  send,  and,  without  letting  Brockton 
know,  destroys.  Madison  makes  his  fortune  and  comes  to  claim  his 
bride.  Her  deception  and  her  unworthiness  are  revealed  simultaneously 
to  the  two  men.  Madison  rejects  her  because  she  has  been  unfaithful, 
and  Brockton  rejects  her  because  she  has  lied  to  him  and  made  him 
seem  a  liar  in  the  eyes  of  Madison.  Nobody  shoots  anybody,  because 
nobody  cares  deeply  enough  to  act  in  the  ordinary,  human,  melodramatic 
way.  Laura  wants  to  kill  herself,  but  lacks  the  necessary  steadiness 
of  character.  Instead,  she  rushes  forth  to  make  a  hit  at  a  midnight 
supper,  and  to  slip  ultimately  lower  and  lower  down  the  easy  descent. 

This  unpleasant  play  is  firmly  built,  and  simply  and  directly  written. 
The  first  act,  which  expounds  the  triangular  compact  that  becomes  the 
basis  of  the  subsequent  action,  is  somewhat  difficult  to  believe,  because 
it  is  hard  to  appreciate  the  unusually  unemotional  motives  of  the  extraor- 
dinary trio.  But  granted  the  first  act,  the  rest  of  the  play  follows  with 
inevitable  logic.  The  author  fails  at  all  points  to  awaken  sympathy  for 
his  characters ;  but  the  story  is  interesting  to  the  intellect.  The  action 
maintains  a  firm  hold  upon  the  attention  because  it  moves  swiftly  along  a 
straightforward  and  unwavering  course.  The  details  of  the  drama  are 
imitated  closely  from  actuality,  and  are  even,  within  the  limits  of  the 
phase  of  life  depicted,  true.  Certain  scenes,  like  a  passage  in  the  second 
act  between  Laura  and  a  more  fiaunting  and  befeathered  lady  of  the 
demi-monde,  are  thoroughly  commendable  as  psychologic  studies.  The 
dialogue  is  admirably  suited  to  the  characters,  and  with  interesting  art 
is  kept  upon  a  consistent  level  of  vulgar  slang. 

Not  only  is  The  Easiest  Way  an  efficient  work  of  art;  it  is  also  tm- 
impeachable  on  the  score  of  morality.  The  grounds  on  which  the  moral- 
ity of  any  serious  drama  should  logically  be  determined  have  more  than 


OBce  been  set  forth  with  sufficient  fulness  by  the  present  writer.  The 
Easiest  Way  is  not  immoral^  because  the  author  does  not  tell  lies  specifi- 
cally about  any  of  the  people  in  his  story,  and  because  he  does  not  allure 
the  audience  to  generalize  falsely  in  regard  to  life  at  large  from  the 
specific  circumstances  of  his  play.  Furthermore,  the  piece  is  neither 
indecent  nor  indelicate;  and  at  no  point  does  it  titillate  the  prurient 
imagination.  Mr.  Walter's  statement  in  the  daily  press  that  his  motive 
for  writing  it  was  a  desire  to  teach  a  noble  moral  lesson  by  exposing 
some  of  the  sins  of  society  is,  of  course,  untrue;  because  no  man  with 
such  a  silly  purpose  could  write  so  good  a  play.  But  just  as  baseless 
and  absurd  have  been  the  attacks  directed  against  the  morality  of  the 
piece  in  column  after  column  of  the  newspapers  of  New  York. 

The  one  thing  that  is  really  wrong  with  The  Easiest  Way  is  that  the 
play  is  not  interesting  to  the  emotions.  It  is  a  thoroughly  true,  and 
therefore  moral,  study  of  certain  unfortunate  and  unimportant  people 
with  whom  it  is  impossible  for  the  audience  to  feel  any  human  sympathy. 
The  action  is  interesting  merely  to  the  intellect,  and  leaves  the  audi- 
ence cold.  From  the  point  of  view  of  the  observer,  it  does  not  matter 
what  may  happen  to  the  characters,  because  the  worst  that  may  happen 
will  serve  them  right.  The  play  is  entirely  devoid  of  passion ;  the  rela- 
tions between  the  characters  result  from  chill,  disinterested  calculation. 
The  piece,  therefore,  defrauds  the  audience,  by  failing  to  present  to  their 
Attention  entanglements  with  which  they  may  sympathize  and  characters 
for  whom  they  may  care.  In  the  natural  pursuit  of  happiness  they  bring 
to  the  theatre  a  large  heart  longing  to  love  some  aspect  of  life  or  some 
character  imaginably  harmonious  with  their  own  experience;  and  in- 
stead they  are  confronted  with  a  woman  without  morals  and  two  men 
without  ideals,  for  whom  they  find  it  impossible  to  feel  so  much  as 
Bony.  Upon  this  simple  and  important  human  ground,  this  play, 
though  admirable  in  art  and  unimpeachable  in  morality,  fails  to  satisfy 
the  audience.  Because  it  is  unpleasant,  it  does  not  add  to  anybody's 
happiness.  Therefore,  in  comparison  with  a  pleasant  play  like  Mr. 
Barriers  What  Every  Woman  Knows,  it  pales  into  unimportance  and 
must  be  regarded  as  a  waste  of  work. 

The  Dawn  of  a  To-morrow,  by  Mrs.  Frances  Hodgson  Burnett,  gives 
evidence  of  a  laudatory  intention  on  the  part  of  the  playwright.  She 
started  out  with  a  religious  idea  which  was  not  only  pleasant  but 
important;  but  unfortunately,  during  the  course  of  her  story,  she  de- 
veloped this  idea  beyond  its  limits  and  thereby  stretched  its  truth  to 

218  THE  FORUM 

The  health  of  Sir  Oliver  Holt  is  shattered  by  a  nervous  breakdown, 
and  his  physicians  give  him  up  to  die.    He  revolts  against  the  prospect 

of  languishing  disintegration;  and  disguising  himself 
"The  Dawn  ^^  shabby  dothes^  goes  forth  to  shoot  himself  in  some 

of  a  obscure  quarter  of  the  slums  of  London^  where  hia 

To-Morrow**        identity  will  not  be  known.     In  the  slums  he  runs 

across  a  girl  named  Olad,  who  confronts  the  heart- 
ache and  the  thousand  natural  shocks  that  flesh  is  heir  to  with  an  in- 
domitable cheerfulness  of  mood.  She  assures  him  that  things  are  never 
so  bad  as  they  seem,  and  that  deliberate  hopefulness  religiously  main- 
tained within  the  spirit  can  conquer  conditions  that  would  seem  invinci- 
ble to  a  despairing  soul.  Sir  Oliver  is  charmed  by  the  sunny  tempera- 
ment of  the  girl  and  interested  by  her  philosophy.  He  postpones  his 
purpose  of  suicide,  and  watches  her  behavior  through  a  series  of  cir- 
cumstances in  which  she  manages  to  save  her  lover  from  being  arrested 
for  a  crime  of  which  he  is  innocent  by  winning  the  unwilling  assistance 
of  Sir  Oliver's  own  profligate  son.  In  the  end  Sir  Oliver  is  cheered  out 
of  .his  despair,  and  the  prospect  is  offered  that  he  may  recover  from  his 
illness  after  all. 

This  is,  of  course,  an  interesting  story;  but  it  was  told  very  crudely 
for  the  purposes  of  the  stage.  It  was  evident  at  all  points  that  the  author 
was  a  novdist  rather  than  a  dramatist.  Much  that  should  have  been 
shown  in  action  was  expounded  in  speech,  and  the  plot  progressed  very 
slowly  through  obstructive  disquisitions.  The  people  of  the  story  lacked 
concreteness  of  characterization;  they  were  types,  instead  of  being  in- 
dividuals. The  spectator  was  repeatedly  disturbed  by  the  anachronism 
of  foregone  expedients,  such  as  the  soliloquy  and  the  aside.  At  many 
moments  it  was  too  evident  that  the  author  was  a  woman.  In  the  second 
act  she  permitted  everybody  to  tell  the  story  of  his  life  to  everybody  else, 
and  sicklied  the  dialogue  with  sentimental  religiosity.  Yet  the  piece 
was  so  interesting  in  a  story-booky  sort  of  way  that  these  crudities  might 
all  have  been  forgiven,  except  for  a  central  falsity  that  arose  from  the 
author's  extravagant  treatment  of  her  theme. 

It  is  indubitably  true  that,  in  the  long  run,  the  sort  of  things  that 
will  happen  to  a  man  will  be  determined,  to  a  great  extent,  by  the  sort 
of  person  that  he  is,  and  that  therefore  he  will  master  his  destiny  in 
proportion  as  he  masters  himself.  Comes  he  to  achieve  within  himself  a 
mood  of  dauntless  cheerfulness,  it  will  become  true  of  him,  as  of  Emer- 
son's poet,  that  the  impressions  of  the  actual  world  shall  fall  like  sum- 
mer rain,  copious,  but  not  troublesome,  to  his  invulnerable  essence.  It 
is  true,  of  course,  that  nervous  and  hysterical  diseases  can  have  no  power 


over  a  man  who  is  too  busy  thinking  of  more  interesting  things  to  think 
about  his  nerves.  The  way  to  get  over  sea-sickness  is  to  love  the  sea 
so  gloriously  that  you  have  no  leisure  to  be  bothered  about  your  own  in- 
sides.  The  way  to  cure  green-sickness  is  to  buy  a  ham  and  see  life.  All 
this  is  very  true.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  it  is  also  true  that  you  cannot 
cure  a  fractured  skull  by  trying  to  forget  it,  and  that  no  amount  of 
deliberate  wishing  will  add  one  cubit  unto  your  stature. 

When  the  cockney  heroine  of  Mrs.  Burnett's  story  wants  something 
very  much,  she  has  a  habit  of  **arstin',  arstin',  arstinV'  and  the  author 
tries  to  make  us  believe  that  she  always  gets  it  then  and  there.  If  she 
is  in  trouble,  she  asks  very  hard ;  and  at  once  the  telephone  rings  with  a 
saving  message,  or  a  knock  upon  the  door  reveals  the  presence  of  a  timely 
intercessor.  All  this,  of  course,  is  false;  and  it  is  that  silliest  sort  of 
falsehood  which  results  from  the  exaggeration  of  a  great  and  simple 

Many  miracles  may  be  effected  by  the  power  of  a  mood.  It  is 
entirely  true  that  the  enchantments  of  Comus  lost  their  efficacy  when 
they  were  confronted  by  the  pure  mood  of  the  virgin-minded  Lady.  It 
is  true  that  Stevenson  was  too  busy  and  too  happy  to  die,  when,  in  de- 
fiance of  the  doctors,  he  sat  up  in  bed  and  wrote  off  Dr,  Jekyll  and  Mr. 
Hyde,  But  to  say  that  if  I  want  a  steam-yacht  to  play  with,  all  that 
I  need  to  do  is  to  think  about  it  very  hard,  and  lo !  the  river  shall  rise 
and  float  one  serenely  to  my  doorstep,  is  not  only  nonsensical  but  in  a 
serious  sense  immoral.  In  positing  a  Providence  that  sends  some  one  to 
knock  upon  the  door  whenever  her  heroine  needs  to  be  protected,  Mrs. 
Burnett  reduces  the  idea  of  God  to  the  idea  of  a  Jack-in-the-box.  If  this 
philosophy  should  be  believed,  it  might  lead  to  dangerous  procedures. 
Somebody,  for  instance,  might  think  very  hard  that  the  law  of  gravita- 
tion was  untrue,  and,  buoyant  with  this  belief,  might  jump  out  of  the 
window.  Thoreau  got  along  without  money  by  making  up  his  mind  that 
money  was  unnecessary  to  him.  He  achieved  wealth  by  ignoring  it. 
But  when  he  wanted  a  piece  of  pie,  he  didn't  twiddle  his  toes  in  Walden 
Pond,  and  ask,  and  ask,  and  ask;  he  arose  like  a  man,  and  walked  a 
mile  and  a  half,  and  knocked  at  Emerson's  back  door. 

In  The  Third  Degree  Mr.  Charles  Klein  has  fabricated  a  very  inter- 
esting melodrama.  Young  Howard  Jeffries  drifts  into  the  apartments 
of  his  friend,  Robert  Underwood,  and,  dreary  with  many  drinks,  sinks 
deeply  asleep  upon  the  sofa.  While  Jeffries  is  sleeping.  Underwood  kills 
himself.  Some  hours  afterward,  Jeffries  is  discovered  trying  to  find 
his  way  out  of  the  apartment,- and  is  accused  of  murdering  his  friend. 

220  THE  FORUM 

He  tells  the  truth,  but  the  truth  is  not  believed.  The  police  captain 
strives  for  seven  consecutive  hours,  by  every  means  of  psychologic  tor- 
ture, to  make  him  admit  the  crime.  At  last  the  befuddled  mind  of  Jeff- 
ries is  weakened  beyond  capacity  for  further  resistance; 
"The  and  in  a  sort  of  hypnosis,  he  repeats  word  for  word  a 

Third  confession  that  the  captain  formulates  and  thrusts  upon 

Degree'*  him.     Jeffries,  whose  family  is  very  rich,  has  already 

been  disowned  by  his  father  for  marrying  a  waitress.  His 
father  now  believes  him  guilty  of  murder,  and  refuses  to  stand  by  him. 
His  only  friend  is  the  wife  with  whom  his  family  will  not  associate.  This 
girl,  Annie  Jeffries,  though  vulgar  and  uneducated,  is  a  person  of  simple 
truth  and  steadfastness  of  character.  Alone  and  dauntlessly  she  fights 
for  her  husband^s  freedom.  By  persistency  of  appeal  she  ultimately  en- 
lists the  services  of  an  eminent  lawyer,  Bichard  Brewster,  who  is  obliged 
to  sacrifice  his  lucrative  practice  with  the  elder  Jeffries  when,  against  the 
latter's  will,  he  espouses  the  cause  of  the  son.  Brewster,  with  the 
assistance  of  Annie,  finally  establishes  the  innocence  of  Annie^s  hus- 
band; and  the  various  members  of  the  Jeffries  family  gradually  awaken 
to  a  realization  of  her  worth. 
This  play  is  interesting  in  plot,  and  suflSciently  human  in  character- 
ization. It  is  compactly  built  and  naturally  written.  Two  of  the  char- 
acters are  untrue, — namely,  the  father  and  notably  the  step-mother  of 
young  Jeffries, — ^but  in  Annie  the  author  has  drawn  a  genuine  and  ap- 
pealing human  figure.  This  character  is  the  truest  and  the  most  in- 
teresting that  Mr.  Klein  has  yet  given  to  the  stage.  The  first  act  of 
the  play  is  exceedingly  well-made,  and,  except  in  the  lines  of  the  elder 
Mrs.  Jeffries,  is  very  well  written.  Prom  the  technical  standpoint,  this 
one  act  is  the  best  piece  of  work  that  Mr.  Klein  has  ever  done.  The 
second  act  is  very  nearly  as  good;  but  the  third  act,  though  well-sus- 
tained in  material,  becomes  somewhat  wobbly  in  the  handling,  and  se- 
cures its  effect  only  through  the  introduction  of  incidents  impossible  in 
fact.  The  last  act  exhibits  a  mild  but  unobjectionable  subsidence  in  the 

The  Third  Degree  is  not  an  important  play,  because  it  isnH  about 
anything  which  is  of  serious  significance  to  humanity.  But  it  does 
present  a  real  character  and  tell  an  interesting  story  with  theatric  skill. 
It  is  by  far  the  best  play  that  Mr.  Klein  has  written.  It  is  more  skilful 
than  The  Music  Muster  and  more  real  than  The  TAon  and  the  Mouse. 
Mr.  Klein  is  a  craftsman  rather  than  an  artist,  but  he  has  a  considerable 
following  in  our  theatres,  and  it  is  worthy  of  record  that  in  his  present 
piece  he  has  made  a  decisive  and  commendable  advance. 


A  condition  precedent  to  criticism  is  the  existence  of  something  to  be 
criticised.     Concerning  Kassa  the  critic  can  say  nothing.     Upon  the 

programme  appears  the  name  of  John  Luther  Long. 

It  is  always  pleasant  to  remember  that  Mr.  Long  once 
"Kassa**  wrote  a  beautifully  human  and  dramatic  story,  entitled 

Madam  Butterfly,  which  deservedly  has  been  heard 

around  the  world. 

The  New  Lady  Bantock,  by  Mr.  Jerome  K.  Jerome,  is  a  bothersome 
bit  of  work,  for  the  reason  that  it  ought  to  be  immeasurably  better  than 
it  is.     Young  Vernon  Wetherell  falls  in  love  with  a 
"The  New  g^rl  of  the  music  halls.    He  wishes  her  to  marry  him 

Lady  for  himself  alone,  and  therefore  does  not  tell  her  that 

Bantock"  he  is  wealthy  and  a  nobleman.     Only  after  their  mar- 

riage, when  he  takes  her  to  Bantock  Hall,  does  she 
learn  that  he  is  in  reality  Lord  Bantock.  It  happens  that  a  single  family 
has  for  generations  furnished  all  the  servants  of  Bantock  Hall;  and  it 
turns  out  that  the  present  members  of  this  family  are  the  new  Lady  Ban- 
tock^s  next  of  kin.  She  enters  the  house  to  discover  that  the  butler 
is  her  uncle,  the  housekeeper  her  aunt,  and  that  her  maids  and  menser- 
vants  are  her  cousins.  This,  of  course,  the  young  Lord  Bantock  does 
not  know.  To  make  matters  more  embarrassing,  her  relatives  have  al- 
ways disapproved  of  her.  They  are  a  straight-laced  lot  and  have  never 
forgiven  her  the  shocking  move  of  going  on  the  stage.  They  are  in- 
sufferably traditional  and  conventional,  and  now  undertake  to  teach 
Lady  Bantock  how  to  behave.  They  make  her  life  so  unbearable  that, 
in  an  ultimate  outburst,  she  discharges  them  all  and  tells  the  incon- 
gruous truth  to  her  husband.  In  the  end  Lord  Bantock  brings  about 
a  truce  between  his  wife  and  her  butler-imcle,  and  there  is  a  prospect  of 
happy  living  in  the  future. 

It  must  be  evident  at  once  that  the  idea  which  is  the  basis  of  this 
story  is  in  itself  unusually  amusing.  It  might  be  given  a  farcical  de- 
velopment, and  the  central  incongruity  of  situation  might  be  made  the 
occasion  for  uproarious  merriment.  Or  it  might  be  developed  along  the 
lines  of  high  comedy  and  be  made  the  occasion  for  social  satire  at  once 
witty  and  wise.  The  disappointing  thing  about  The  New  Lady  Bantock 
is  that  Mr.  Jerome's  handling  of  the  theme  is  ineffective.  The  play  fails 
of  excellence  as  farce,  because  it  is  deficient  in  action.  The  incongruity 
of  situation  is  talked  about,  over  and  over  again,  in  tedious  repetitions; 
but  the  myriad  funny  things  that  might  happen  never  do.  On  the  other 
hand,  the  play  fails  of  excellence  as  comedy,  because  its  characters  are 



merely  sketched  in  outline  and  because  the  dialogue  is  slow  and  devoid 
of  brilliancy.  At  the  climax  the  author  tries  for  pathos  and  strikes  a 
note  of  falsity.  A  serious  culmination  is  not  really  inherent  in  his  theme, 
and  he  brings  it  about  only  by  obviously  artificial  means.  The  play 
on  the  whole  is  tantalizing,  because  each  successive  scene,  as  it  is  intro- 
duced, suggests  comic  and  dramatic  possibilities  which  the  author  fails 
to  realize.    It  is  very  disappointing  to  see  a  good  thing  badly  done. 

The  Goddess  of  Reason^  is  a  tale  of  the  French  Revolution  told  in 
verse  by  Miss  Maiy  Johnston,  author  of  sundry  popular  historical  ro- 
mances.    Yvette,  a  peasant  girl  of  Brittany,  is  the 
**^\^^  natural  daughter  of  a  nobleman  and  consequently  a 

Goddess  of  cousin  by  blood  of  the  Baron  of  Morbec.    Morbec  has 

Reason"  once  met  her  in  a  forest  and  loved  her  at  sight.     She 

leads  an  uprising  of  the  peasants,  which  is  put  down 
by  Morbec,  who  shows  them  clemency  because  of  his  love  for  her.  He 
places  her  in  the  shelter  of  a  convent,  where  in  solitude  she  dreams  upon 
her  love  of  him.  To  her,  however,  it  seems  that  Morbec  is  in  love  with 
^he  Marquise  of  Blanchefor§t.  Therefore,  in  jealousy,  she  leaves  the 
convent  in  company  with  Remond  Lalain,  a  leader  in  the  Revolution 
and  an  enemy  of  Morbec.  After  the  legislative  abolishment  of  Ood,  she 
is  made,  through  Lalain's  influence,  a  living  symbol  of  the  Goddess  of 
Reason,  and  proceeds  in  triumph  through  the  streets  of  Nantes.  The 
Revolutionary  rabble  encounter  Morbec  and  clamor  for  his  death;  but 
Yvette  pleads  with  them  for  clemency  and  secures  immunity  for  him. 
Discovering,  however,  a  moment  later,  that  the  Marquise  of  BlancheforSt 
is  in  his  company,  she  suffers  a  revulsion  of  feeling,  and  hands  them 
both  over  to  the  f uiy  of  the  crowd.  After  they  are  imprisoned,  she  un- 
dergoes another  revulsion  of  remorse  and  love.  By  selling  herself  to 
Lalain,  she  buys  their  pardon.  It  comes  too  late,  however,  to  save  the 
life  of  the  Marquise.  In  the  judgment  hall  Morbec  reviles  Lalain  and 
is  condemned  to  death;  and  Yvette,  arising,  curses  the  court  and  the 
Revolution,  and  is  condemned  to  die  with  Morbec.  Together  the  lovers 
are  cast  into  the  Loire. 

This  conventional  story  is  set  forth  in  a  melodrama  which  is  nar- 
rative rather  than  dramatic,  and  in  which  the  action  is  swamped  beneath 
floods  of  talk.  The  actors  in  the  story  are  not  realized  as  characters. 
They  wear  red  caps  and  sing  La  Marseillaise,  but  they  fail  to  convince 
the  audience  of  essential  humanity.    Most  of  them  have  a  habit  of  solilo- 

^The  Oodd€88  of  Reciaon.  By  Mary  John8toii.  Boston  and  New  York:  Hough- 
ton, Mifflin  and  Company.     1007. 


quizing  at  length  about  matters  irrelevant  to  the  moment.  The  author 
has  attempted  to  lift  this  hollow  fabric  into  literature  by  writing  it  in 
verse.  Of  this  endeavor  the  only  pertinent  criticism  is  that  dramatic 
literature  is  not  a  matter  of  mere  words  but  a  matter  of  telling  the 
truth  about  real  people  in  real  situations.  As  verse,  the  writing  of  Miss 
Johnston  does  not  detain  consideration.  Her  verse  is  monotonously 
end-stopped  and  evidences  no  knowledge  whatsoever  of  the  elementary 
principles  of  phrasing  and  rhythmic  variation.  The  author  apparently 
is  unaware  that  it  is  possible  to  set  a  complete  pause  at  any  place  in  a 
pentametrical  line  except  the  very  end.  The  only  merit  of  her  writing 
is  that  it  is  simple  in  diction  and  shows  a  commendable  avoidance  of 
inversions.  The  piece  is  tedious  to  read ;  but  in  the  theatre  it  is  made 
almost  worth  seeing  by  the  interpretative  talents  of  a  very  able  actressy 
In  the  theatre  bad  verse  may  be  made  to  sound  like  good  poetry  by  a 
performer  who  supplements  the  natural  gifts  of  a  beautiful  presence  and 
a  melodious  voice  by  a  trained  talent  for  reading.  Good  acting  can 
sometimes  transform  an  unreal  part  into  a  real  character.  Miss  Johnston 
has  been  fortunate  in  the  actress  of  Yvette :  considered  by  and  for  itself 
her  play  is  negligible. 

Clayton  Hamilton. 



Meekly^  with  folded  hands  and  patient  brows. 
Come  two  from  out  the  shadow-deepened  door; 
A  cross  is  on  the  altar  of  their  House, — 
It  hushed  their  voices  while  it  heard  their  vows; 
Ay  me,— the  Silent  Sisters  of  the  Poor ! 

The  cross  upon  the  altar  is  of  gold, 
And  coldly  gleams  in  the  chill  chapel  air; — 
Is  it  for  this  their  bosoms  are  so  cold. 
Nor  beat  as  they  were  wont  to  beat  of  old? — 
Or  is  a  wintry  cross  enfix6d  there? 

The  sun  is  dimly  drooping  down  the  west; 

The  ancient  House  against  his  glory  stands 
Sombre  and  gaunt  and  dark;  and  darkly  drest 
Two  figures  seem  to  fade  within  its  breast 

Meekly,  with  patient  brows  and  folded  hands* 

George  Herbert  Clarke. 



Many  years  have  passed  since  the  Wagner  controversy  ceased  to  agi- 
tate the  world  of  music.  Wagner  has  come  into  his  own,  as  the  saying 
is ;  his  work  is  established,  and  we  drift  on,  self-satisfied  that  his  influ- 
ence is  manifested  in  every  form  of  musical  art.  We  have  learned  all 
about  the  leit-motiv;  the  once  derided  and  misunderstood  "infinite  mel- 
ody" has  come  to  be  so  much  a  matter  of  course  that  we  have  forgotten 
the  term;  we  have  learned  to  memorize  symbolical  themes,  and  to  adjust 
our  mental  processes  to  their  orderly,  or  disorderly  recurrence;  appre- 
ciation of  orchestral  color  has  come  to  be  so  general  that  we  well-nigh 
overlook  the  advisability,  not  to  say  the  necessity,  of  original  melody  as 
the  canvas  for  the  color;  we  even  imagine  that  dramatic  unity  has  been 
infused  into  the  opera  because  the  action  is  now  more  synchronous  with 
the  music  than  it  used  to  be,  because  the  recitativo  secco  has  been  dis- 
placed by  more  or  less  musical  declamation,  and  because  the  orchestra 
is  supposed  to  keep  the  musical  interest  unbroken- when  the  demands  of 
the  drama  require  concentration  on  the  action.  So  well  has  the  musical 
public  learned  these  things  that  innovators  who  are  trumpeted  as  out- 
Wagnering  Wagner  are  received  with  more  than  respectful  attention  in 
opera  house  and  concert  room,  and  nothing  is  too  cacophonous  or  un- 
lovely to  escape  its  meed  of  hysterical  and  apparently  intelligent  ap- 

Because  Wagner's  works  tended  toward  the  broadening  of  the  limits 
of  form,  toward  greater  and  more  agreeable  diversity  than  the  art  of 
music  had  before  his  time,  it  is  natural  that  some  of  the  deplorable  fea- 
tures of  modem  music  should  be  charged  to  him,  as  if  he  should  be  held 
responsible  for  the  errors  of  his  imitators.  But,  acknowledging  the 
wholesome  advances  in  music  that  are  attributable  to  his  influence,  we 
may  be  sure  that  the  art  will  work  out  its  problems  to  a  future  basis  of 
sanity  and  beauty,  and,  for  the  present,  looking  toward  the  opera,  where 
alone  Wagner's  genius  was  directed  with  marvellous  insight,  observe 
that  one  of  the  most  important  lessons  he  undertook  to  inculcate  has  been 
ignored.  The  book  of  the  opera,  all  appearances  of  progress  to  the  con- 
trary notwithstanding,  has  not  been  improved.  It  has  been  reformed,  but 
not  to  its  indubitable  advantage.  Certain  objectionable  features  of  the 
libretto  have  been  discarded,  but  features  equally  objectionable  have 
taken  their  place. 

Wagner  cried  aloud  for  the  unity  of  the  arts,  and  contemporary  com- 


posers  and  librettists,  undertakihg  to  profit  by  his  teaching,  have  con- 
trived a  form  of  opera  that  approximates  to  the  spoken  drama  in  the  con- 
tinuity of  its  action.  The  chorus  is  employed  with  intelligent  regard 
to  its  dramatic  purpose.  Arias  take  their  origin  from  the  situation,  and 
are  not  lugged  in  without  reason.  Great  regard  is  had  for  the  story, 
that  it  shall  abound  in  human  interest  and  be  effectively  told.  All 
this  seems  to  be  an  advance  on  the  ancient  opera  of,  say,  fifty  years 
ago,  and  the  method  is  in  the  main  correct.  The  vital  error  lies  in  the 
nature  of  the  subjects  chosen  by  the  librettists  and  sanctioned  by  the 

From  the  time  when  his  art  principles  were  fully  formed  and  under- 
stood in  his  own  mind,  Wagner  peopled  the  stage  with  no  personages 
who  could  be  called  modem.  In  the  main  he  chose  his  subjects  from 
mythology,  and  when  he  did  not,  he  harked  so  far  back  in  history  that 
his  people  appeal  to  us  with  much  the  same  mistiness  as  his  demigods 
and  magicians.  In  so  doing  he  established  a  principle  well-nigh  as  vital 
as  form  itself.  The  opera  has  no  business  in  the  field  of  contem- 
poraneous events.  Inasmuch  as  it  makes  music  an  essential  factor  in 
its  structure,  it  should  have  due  regard  to  the  limitations  of  music,  as 
well  as  to  its  boundless  potentiality  for  the  expression  of  beauty,  and  the 
drama  should  be  so  constructed  as  to  permit  of  music  its  highest  pos- 
sible eflBciency.  In  opera  of  the  present  day  both  the  musical  efficiency 
and  the  dramatic  efficiency  are  sacrificed ;  both  are  mauled  and  distorted 
in  the  vain  attempt  to  make  a  satisfactory  art  work  of  the  combination ; 
and  the  failure  to  achieve  a  satisfactory  result  is  the  fault,  not  of  the 
music,  or  the  theory  according  to  which  it  was  composed,  not  of  the 
method  of  the  librettist,  but  of  the  nature  of  his  subject.  In  other 
words,  the  libretto  of  the  post- Wagnerian  music-drama  is  bad ;  a  hope- 
less vehicle  for  music,  an  impossible  factor  in  music-drama.  To  be 
specific.  La  Boheme,  Madama  Butterfly,  La  Tosca,  Cavalleria  Rusticana, 
I  Pagliacci,  and  many  others,  should  be  condemned  because  their  books 
are  bad ;  they  never  should  have  been  set  to  music. 

There  is  a  standard  objection  to  opera  as  an  art  form  which  is  too 
familiar  to  need  extended  exposition.  It  is  usually  expressed  in  a 
humorous  vein,  as  if  the  objector  were  conscious  that  he  would  be  re- 
garded as  a  Philistine  by  the  elect,  and  therefore  couched  his  argument 
with  foreknowledge  that  no  opera  lover  would  condescend  to  reply  to  it ; 
but  the  objection  is  well  founded  and  worthy  of  serious  examination. 
The  argument  in  behalf  of  opera  involves  a  frank  dismissal  of  reason; 
we  are  asked  to  accept  the  posit  of  the  makers  of  the  work  and  regard 
the  stage  people  as  human  beings  deprived  of  certain  characteristics  and 



endowed  with  others  of  an  extraordinary  nature.  We  are  to  assume  that 
these  personages  love,  hate,  give  way  to  passion,  exercise  self-abnega- 
tion, pray,  rejoice,  sorrow,  and  so  forth,  as  we  do;  but  that  ordinary 
restraint  in  the  matter  of  expressing  their  feelings  is  utterly  unknown 
to  them;  that  they  are  human  beings  who  cannot  help  voicing  their  deep- 
est, subtlest  thoughts  as  well  as  their  most  superficial,  transitory  emo- 
tions; that  they  express  them  in  loud  tones  addressed  either  to  other 
personages,  or  to  receptive  space ;  that,  moreover,  they  are  beings  whose 
sole  vehicle  of  language  is  song. 

Reason  tells  us  that  such  human  beings  do  not  exist,  and  the  demand 
of  the  opera  maker  is,  therefore,  a  severe  one;  but  it  is  proper,  neverthe- 
less, and,  with  the  book  of  the  opera  properly  constructed,  not  even  a 
blasphemous  humorist  can  object  to  it.  The  justification  for  the  humor- 
ist lies  in  the  fact  that  the  posit  of  the  contemporary  opera  maker  com- 
pels him  not  only  to  dismiss  his  reason,  but  to  eliminate  ordinary  intelli- 
gence from  his  system.  When  the  stage  people  are  such  familiar  types 
as  are  seen  in  La  Boheme  or  Madama  Butterfly,  he  finds  the  demand 
impossible.  He  knows  that  human  beings  under  the  heart-rending  cir- 
cumstances of  those  dramas  would  not  sing,  and  he  cannot  disabuse  his 
mind  of  the  inconsistency.  As  well  people  the  stage  with  Smith,  his 
grocer,  and  Brown,  his  next-door  neighbor,  and  set  them  to  singing 
of  last  night's  disastrous  fire,  or  the  campaign  against  tuberculosis.  The 
result,  in  that  case,  would  be  farce,  no  matter  with  what  seriousness,  and 
excellent  tenor  and  barytone  voices,  his  familiars  expressed  themselves. 
It  is  to  be  suspected  that  current  grand  operas  are  saved  from  relegation 
to  the  category  of  farce  by  the  fact  that  the  familiar  types  therein  sing 
in  a  foreign  language. 

Let  us  suppose  that  the  objector  is  good  enough,  and  strong-willed 
enough,  to  accept  the  posit  of  the  librettist  with  regard  to  these  person- 
ages; that  he  shuts  his  eyes  to  the  ridiculous  inconsistency  of  beings  like 
himself  who  never  open  their  mouths  but  to  sing;  he  then  has  an  un- 
pardonable offence  to  charge  against  the  composer.  The  librettist  has 
aroused  a  strong  human  interest  in  the  stage  people  and  their  circum- 
stances ;  comes  the  composer  at  a  critical  moment,  and  every  moment  is 
critical  in  a  stirring  drama,  and  compels  the  observer  to  await  develop- 
ments for  the  slow  unfolding  of  music.  When  the  familiar  types  should 
do  familiar,  intelligible  things,  they  must  pause  for  song;  when  they 
should  run,  they  must  walk,  if,  indeed,  the  demands  of  music  do  not 
require  them  to  stand  still.  The  normal  course  of  the  drama  is  per- 
verted for  the  sake  of  music,  and  the  divine  art,  in  its  attempt  to  keep 
pace  with  the  drama,  is  reduced  often  to  the  unintelligible,  in  itself 


uninteresting  level  of  melodramatic  accompaniment.     Thus  is  th^  effi- 
ciency of  each  factor  in  the  combination  minimized. 

There  is  no  need  of  this.  It  is  the  unnecessary  clash  of  the  familiar 
and  the  fanciful  that  jars.  Give  the  observer  beings  who  sing  instead  of 
talk,  endow  them  with  recognizable  human  characteristics,  thus  to 
forge  the  links  whereby  the  sympathy  of  the  observer  is  chained,  and  let 
them  do  whatever  the  plot  of  the  drama  demands;  so  long  as  they  are 
admittedly  creatures  of  fancy,  and  not  next-door  neighbors,  or  types 
from  contemporaneous  literature,  intelligence  is  not  offended,  and  the 
surrender  of  the  observer  to  the  posit  of  the  authors  of  the  work  is  will- 
ing and  complete.  By  this  means  the  opera-maker  may  attain  true 
unity  of  the  arts,  and  approach  more  nearly  the  ideal  atmosphere  of 
music,  which  should  be  as  far  dissociated  as  possible  from  the  expression 
of  ordinary  thoughts  in  familiar  words. 

Music,  in  its  highest  potentiality,  has  nought  to  do  with  words.  It 
is  not  a  vehicle  for  ideas,  using  the  word  in  its  common  meaning. 
Musical  ideas  there  are,  but  they  are  expressible  only  through  modulated 
sounds,  and  cannot  possibly  be  translated  into  speech — no,  not  by  the 
greatest  poet  who  ever  lived  or  ever  will  live.  It  stands  apart  from  the 
other  arts,  unique,  untranslatable,  indescribable.  It  is  absolute  beauty, 
sufficient  in  itself,  lamed  rather  than  helped  by  garrulous  man^s  at^ 
tempts  to  put  its  emotive  value  into  words.  Nevertheless,  so  flexible  is 
this  art  that  it  can  readily  be  employed  to  enhance  the  meaning  of  words, 
and  to  arouse  emotions  more  deeply  than  could  be  done  by  words  un- 
aided. Once  joined  to  words,  music,  as  such,  loses  some  portion  of  its 
distinction.  We  may  say  that  it  stoops  to  conquer;  for  the  majority 
of  human  kind  is  so  imperfect  in  its  appreciation  of  music  that  it  must 
have  words  (if  not  in  the  form  of  songs,  then  as  exegetical  notes  upon 
its  programmes)  in  connection  with  it;  and  it  is  as  if  music,  realizing 
that  man  must  progress  for  centuries  before  he  can  take  the  art  at  its 
own  valuation,  condescends  to  join  itself  to  words  in  order  that,  by  the 
combination,  man  may  gain  at  least  a  fraction  of  the  joy  that  the  art  is 
ever  ready  to  bestow  upon  its  votaries. 

This  is  idealization  of  music,  confessedly,  and  it  appears  that,  from 
the  ideal  point  of  view,  logically  there  should  be  no  opera  of  any  kind. 
But  men  and  women  do  sing.  From  that  premise  one  step  may  be 
taken  to  the  proposition  that  therefore,  opera  as  an  art  form  is  defensible 
and  desirable.  All  that  I  hope  to  establish  by  a  hasty  glance  at  the  ideal 
domain  of  music  is  that  it  is  right  and  just  to  demand  of  any  art  that 
it  shall  strive  for  its  highest,  and  not  contentedly  stop  short  of  the  high- 
est that  it  can  attain.    And  my  contention  is  that  contemporary  writers 

228  THE  FORUM 

of  grand  opera  consciously  stop  short  of  the  highest  that  is  within  their 

Taking  his  art  with  the  utmost  seriousness,  the  composer  should  be 
unwilling  to  associate  it  with  whatever  detracts  from  its  highest  beauty, 
or,  if  beauty  be  not  always  the  aim  of  music,  let  us  say  eflBciency,  that 
ifl,  its  power  to  reach  the  understanding  through  the  emotive  sensibility 
of  man  to  modulated  sounds.     Music  at  its  highest  being  dissociated 
from  words,  it  follows  that,  if  it  must  be  associated  with  them,  as  in 
opera,  it  should  be  with  the  highest  possible  verbal  expression ;  not  neces- 
,    sarily  that  every  line  should  be  of  the  loftiest  verse,  but  that  the  general 
scene,  the  trend  of  the  action,  the  very  personages,  should  be  as  far  as 
possible  removed  from  the  familiar,  which  is  to  say,  the  commonplace. 
It  follows  again  that,  to  attain  the  greatest  eflBciency  of  the  music,  the 
nature  of  the  action  should  be  imidentified  with  common  experience. 
Therefore,  again,  the  stage  people  should  be  creatures  of  the  imagina- 
tion, and  the  incentives  for  their  dramatic  activity  should  be  sought  for 
in  works  of  the  imagination,  in  one  word,  the  myth.    The  mature  mind 
readily  accepts  the  posit  of  the  fairy  tale ;  with  equal  readiness  it  enters 
into  sympathy  with  the  legendary  beings  of  mythology;  it  expects  them 
to  employ  a  speech  different  from  its  own;  it  regards  them  in  a  way 
analogous  to  the  poef  s  use  of  metaphor,  to  express  in  terms  of  the  com- 
prehensible those  depths  of  feeling  that  defy  the  vocabularies  of  ordi- 
nary men.    Build  the  opera  upon  the  foundation  of  the  imagination,  and 
the  most  imaginative  of  the  arts  then  becomes  a  factor  in  a  firm  structure 
that  does  no  violence  to  the  intelligence,  that  does  not  totter  under  the 
conflict  of  the  ideal  and  the  real,  and  that  wi^ll  find  a  more  or  less  perma- 
nent place  in  the  aflfections  and  respect  of  men  according  to  the  genius 
of  the  composer. 

The  attitude  of  the  audience  indicates  that  music  is  far  weightier 
than  drama  in  the  combination.  It  never  was  the  silly  story  of 
II  Trovatore  that  brought  people  to  the  opera  house,  but  it  was  the  ' 
glorious  melodies  of  Verdi.  English  speaking  audiences  emphatically 
proclaim  their  higher  esteem  for  the  music,  for  they  prefer  that  opera 
should  be  dealt  out  to  them  in  a  foreign  tongue,  whereby  the  jarring 
inconsistencies  are  minimized,  and  the  necessary  resorts  to  commonplace 
in  the  action  of  the  drama  are  glossed  over  by  the  unfarailiarity  of  the 
words  employed.  Even  in  Italy  it  is  said  that  the  habit  of  conversing 
during  the  recitatives  became  fixed.  In  contemporaneous  opera,  whence 
the  recitative  has  been  banished,  the  composer  requires  close  attention 
throughout,  but  what  barren  rewards  do  we  not  get !  The  discriminat- 
ing listener  is  frequently  conscious  that  the  composer  is  industriously 


composing,  doing  his  best  to  make  music  serve  purposes  for  which  it 
is  unfit,  straining  to  carry  our  musical  interest  over  such  episodes  as 
demand  quick  action,  filling  in  intervals  between  songs  or  ensembles 
with  modulated  sounds  that,  musically  speaking,  mean  nothing.  Almost 
the  dry  recitative  would  be  better,  for  that,  at  least,  gave  the  listener's 
fancy  a  rest.  He  had  not  to  listen  to  the  recitative,  but  he  must 
listen  to  the  modem  interludes  in  order  that  he  may  not  miss  the 
beginning  of  the  next  bit  of  real  inspiration  that  the  composer  has  to 

Let  us  confess  that  there  are  prosy  pages  in  the  Nibelungen  trilogy, 
that  Wagner  could  not  attain  to  his  ideals  in  that  series;  but  is  it  sup- 
posable  that  he  could  have  attained  and  maintained  the  lofty  heights  of 
Tristan  if  the  personages  had  been  dressed  in  the  latest  styles  sanctioned 
by  Broadway,  if  they  had  travelled  by  steamboat,  if  their  discourse 
smacked  of  the  boulevard,  or  the  drawing-room  ?  The  question  answers 
itself.  Wagner  drew  upon  visionary  traditions  for  his  story,  he  placed 
before  us  personages  far  removed  from  the  familiar;  thus  he  could  put 
such  speech  upon  their  lips  as  necessarily  called  up  the  mightiest  musical 
force  that  he  could  muster  to  meet  the  occasion;  the  very  unreality  of 
the  personages,  the  impossibility  of  the  story,  with  its  resort  to  magic, 
these  deliberate  departures  from  common  experience  not  only  enabled 
but  inspired  him  to  bring  into  being  the  loftiest  music  which  his  nature 
was  capable  of  conceiving.  And  the  unrealities  of  the  story  in  nowise 
detract  from  the  profoundest  human  interest  that  follows  its  unfolding. 
It  becomes  an  allegory,  and  strikes  deeper  to  the  heart  and  intelligence 
of  man  for  the  very  reason  that  it  is  relieved  of  the  embarrassing  con- 
tradictions arising  from  the  mixture  of  ordinary  human  facts  with 
matters  (that  is  to  say,  music)  that  arise  from  and  depend  upon  the 

It  does  not  follow  from  this  that  Tristan  is  the  greatest  possible 
opera;  it  was  the  greatest  of  which  Wagner  was  capable.  Let  a  greater 
composer  arise  and,  with  an  equally  inspiring  book,  he  will  write  a 
greater  than  Tristan.  But,  frankly,  it  is  inferable  that  Puccini — and 
his  name  is  used  not  from  any  lack  of  admiration  for  his  genius,  but, 
on  the  contrary,  because  he  is  deservedly  the  best  esteemed  composer  of 
opera  to-day — ^it  is  inferable  that  Puccini  would  write  a  far  greater 
opera  than  has  yet  come  from  his  pen  if  he  would  once  abandon  the 
banalities  of  the  theatre  and  seek  a  text  that  should  compel  him  to  toil 
in  the  realms  of  the  imagination.  The  dramas  to  which  he  sets  music 
are  better,  more  interesting,  more  artistic,  as  dramas  unadorned  by 
music  than  as  operas.    The  music  which  he  writes  for  them  would  be 

230  THE  FORUM 

more  satisfactory,  more  uplifting,  more  artistic,  if  it  were  associated 
with  personages  and  events  removed  from  common  experience. 

It  will  not  do  to  retort  that  it  is  unwise  if  not  impracticable  to  base 
a  work  designed  for  public  patronage  upon  matters  outside  common  ex- 
perience. As  indicated  in  the  foregoing,  it  is  not  the  drama  but  the 
music  that  brings  the  people  to  the  opera  house;  and,  in  view  of  the 
dominance  of  the  musical  element  in  the  combination,  we  have  the  right 
to  demand  that  it  shall  not  be  robbed  of  its  highest  eflBciency  by  yoking 
it  to  subjects  that  limit  its  scope  and  compel  it  to  imgrateful  tasks. 
Opera  is  the  most  pretentious,  most  imposing  form  of  musical  art.  So 
much  the  more,  then,  should  the  demand  be  for  the  best  that  can  be 
made  of  it;  so  much  the  severer  condemnation  should  be  visited  on 
those  who  deliberately  make  of  it  a  thing  that  is  beneath  their  own 
highest  powers. 

These  considerations  demand  another  observation  with  regard  to  the 
book  of  the  opera.  It  needs  a  poet,  and  not  a  hack,  as  author.  How 
many  libretti  are  there  that  make  the  slightest  pretension  to  literary 
style,  form,  or  finish?  Is  there  one  that  can  stand  by  itself  as  poem, 
or  drama  ?  There  may  be  a  few,  and,  if  so,  they  were  written  by  Richard 
Wagner.  I  do  not  undertake  here  to  suggest,  much  less  assert  their  value 
as  literature,  but  they  were  manifestly  the  best  that  the  author  could  do, 
and  they  represented  at  least  his  reaching  out  for  the  heights.  Some 
of  the  most  satisfactory  operas  that  the  world  has  known  were  composed 
to  versions  of  the  Faust  legend,  and  one  explanation  of  their  potency, 
aside  from  the  fact  that  they  deal  with  the  myth  and  posit  unreal  cir- 
cumstances as  the  basis  for  action,  lies  in  Goethe's  poem,  which  is  of 
such  form  as  to  be  readily  adaptable  to  the  requirements  of  the  stage. 
Any  Faust  opera,  whatever  the  merits  or  deficiencies  of  its  lines,  is  in 
the  right  atmosphere.  When  the  vast  sums  expended  on  opera  are  con- 
sidered, when  it  is  recognized  that  fashion  and  wealth  are  necessary  to 
its  support,  and  that  fashion  and  wealth  meet  the  emergency  willingly 
and  generously,  it  is  positively  mystifying  that  no  effort  ever  is  made  to 
induce  a  poet  of  distinguished  gifts  to  prepare  a  libretto.  The  ideal 
opera  demands  of  the  librettist  gifts  of  imagination  and  expression  com- 
mensurate with  the  gifts  of  the  composer. 

I  have  always  decried  opera  in  English  because  I  am  a  musician,  and 
I  find  that  the  singing  of  familiar  words  detracts  from  the  sway  of  the 
music;  but  I  should  welcome  such  an  impossible  concatenation  of  cir- 
cumstances as  should  bring  about  a  whole  season  of  opera  in  English 
at  the  Metropolitan  and  Manhattan,  and  wherever  else  the  rival  organiza- 
tions give  performances ;  for  I  am  convinced  that  if  once  the  public  had 


to  hear  La  Tosca,  Cavallerta,  Trovatore,  Otello,  A'ida,  and  so  forth^  in 
English,  there  would  arise  an  insistent  demand  for  libretti  worthy  of  the 
mnsiCj  and  for  such  a  scheme  of  combining  the  arts  as  would  lift  the 
music  drama  from  the  commonplace  of  theatrical  realism  to  the  limitless 
heights  of  imaginative  poetry. 

There  is  apparently  a  conspicuous  exception  to  the  strictures  of  the 
foregoing  in  the  book  of  Pilleas  and  Melisande.  Here  is  an  opera 
whose  story  is  based  on  myth,  and  to  the  writing  of  which  literary  genius 
of  a  high  order  was  directed.  I  grant  at  once  that  this  libretto  is  to  be 
commended  for  its  general  character;  and  inasmuch  as  Thais  has  to  do 
with  personages  far  removed  from  the  familiar  in  history,  I  would  grant 
that  there,  too,  a  -vital  principle  of  operatic  construction  has  been  ob- 
served. But  the  very  mention  of  these  exceptions,  which,  as  usual,  prove 
the  rule,  suggests  another  point  in  the  making  of  the  libretto  that  deserves 
attention,  although  it  is  only  by  inference  in  line  with  Wagner's  teach- 
ings. It  was  a  fine  thing  for  Debussy  to  take  Maeterlinck's  drama  as  a 
libretto;  and  whether  Maeterlinck  did  or  did  not  have  a  musical  setting 
for  Pelleas  in  mind  when  he  wrote,  does  not  matter,  if  it  prove  that 
he  made  a  suitable  text.  That  his  text  is  suitable  to  the  decorative  music 
of  Debussy  may  be  admitted,  but  the  opera-goer  may  reasonably  demand, 
first,  that  the  book  be  so  constructed  that  the  personages  on  the  stage 
shall  be  permitted,  if  not  required,  to  sing  in  the  portrayal  of  their  re- 
spective rdles;  and  second,  that  the  movement  of  the  drama  shall  not 
be  so  swift  as  wholly  to  bar  the  employment  of  well-defined  melody  by 
either  the  vocal  or  instrumental  forces.  In  other  words,  resort  to  the 
myth  as  a  basis  for  the  libretto  necessitates  a  special  treatment  in  the 
working  out  of  the  drama.  It  will  not  do  to  apply  to  the  myth  the 
theatrical  methods  of  the  modem  play.  Wagner  stormed  against  the 
atia  of  his  time,  and  with  such  reason  that  there  is  no  need  here  to 
enter  into  his  argument;  the  reform  instituted  by  him  in  the  treatment 
of  the  aria  is  more  blessed  than  the  banishment  of  the  recitativo  secco; 
but  Wagner  did  not  neglect  the  possibilities  of  song,  or  condemn  his 
singers  to  mere  declamation.  Before  Wagner  was  well  understood,  it 
was  often  said  that  his  operas  could  not  be  sung;  but  we  know  better 
now.  We  know  that  the  best  results  in  performance  of  any  of  his  works 
are  attained  by  proper  use  of  the  singing  voice.  He  did  make  unaccus- 
tomed demands  on  the  voice,  but  they  were  not  abnormal  demands ;  and 
he  was  keenly  alive  to  the  potentiality  of  pure  singing.  In  every  one 
of  his  operas  there  are  long  solo  passages  that  give  opportunity  not  only 
for  sustained  singing,  but  for  the  orderly  development  of  his  themes  in 
the  band.    These  two  eminently  desirable  results  would  have  been  im- 

232  THE  FOBUM 

practicable  if  his  libretti  had  been  constructed  for  the  swift  movement 
of  the  spoken  play.  Compare  his  severest  creations  with  the  works  of 
Strauss^  who  so  far  ignores  singing  as  a  factor  in  operatic  representation 
that  he  frankly  declares  that  it  does  not  matter  whether  or  not  the  per- 
formers sing  the  notes  penned  in  the  score.  To  Strauss  the  singers  are 
manifestly  a  necessary  evil^  and  one  is  tempted  to  presume  that  he 
writes  as  he  does  in  the  hope  of  killing  them  off  one  by  one  so  that 
eventually  his  works  may  be  performed  by  a  band  of  a  thousand  instru- 
ments and  a  dozen  bellowing  megaphones  concealed  in  fancifully  dressed 
and  undressed  manikins.  Strauss  deliberately  chooses  personages  upon 
whose  lips  song  seems  to  be  a  profanation,  and  he  accepts  for  their  utter- 
ance thoughts  and  emotions  that  are  of  pathological  rather  than  artistic 
interest.  So  Strauss  may  well  be  left  to  wallow  in  his  mire,  and  as  for 
Debussy,  whose  gentler  nature  it  seems  a  pity  to  mention  in  the  same 
breath,  it  may  be  said  that  the  disconnected,  highly  colored  sounds  that 
he  writes  as  an  accompaniment  to  Maeterlinck's  drama  are  pleasing  to 
himself.  He  appears  to  have  a  congenital  aversion  to  well-defined 
melody,  and  his  work,  therefore,  the  best  he  can  do,  may  be  allowed  its 
little  day  before  oblivion  overtakes  it,  there  being  nothing  in  its  music 
distinctive  enough  for  the  memory  to  grip. 

It  must  not  be  overlooked  that  Wagner's  elevation  of  the  orchestra 
from  the  position  of  an  accompanying  force  to  that  of  an  essential  factor 
in  the  narration  of  the  story,  calls  for  such  a  construction  of  the  text  as 
will  enable  the  band  to  perform  its  new  and  higher  function  effectively. 
Thematic  development,  whether  after  the  manner  of  the  standard  sym- 
phonists,  or  in  the  modem  psychological  way,  requires  time  and  freedom 
from  interruption.  A  libretto  designed  in  the  style  of  the  spoken  play  is, 
to  a  musician,  a  succession  of  interruptions,  and  the  musical  appetite 
cannot  be  satisfied  with  music  constructed  upon  it.  Again  it  is  a  clash 
of  imagination  and  realism  that  offends;  again  it  is  a  reduction  of 
musical  art  to  a  lower  degree  of  efficiency  than  is  desirable  or  necessary. 
Formal  song  may  be  abolished  from  the  opera,  but  the  dialogue  should 
be  of  such  a  nature  that  the  people  on  the  stage  may  sing  at  least  a  part 
of  the  time,  and  the  orchestra  proceed  with  orderly  development  of  its 
melodic  material  all  the  time,  save  when  climaxes  justify  the  apparently 
disconnected,  melodramatic  method  of  composition.  Thus  only  can 
opera  become  what  it  is  not  to-day,  a  distinctive  art  with  a  value  all  its 
own.  To-day  it  is  an  inartistic  mixture,  music  subordinated  to  drama 
as  in  the  old  days  drama  was  subordinated  to  q^usic.  A  proper  selection 
of  subject  coupled  with  a  proper  construction  of  text  should  be  pro- 
ductive, in  the  hands  of  talented  poets  aud  composers,  of  music-drama 


that  should  be  wholly  satisfactory  to  the  musical  listener;  and  when  he 
is  satisfied  there  is  no  need  to  consider  anybody  else,  for  he  who  cannot 
unbend  to  the  demands  of  the  myth  on  his  imagination,  and  who,  there- 
fore, cannot  adjust  his  mental  attitude  to  the  fanciful  nature  of  operatic 
scene  and  story,  should  seek  his  entertainment  in  the  theatre  where  the 
spoken  play  is  given.  Frederick  B,  Burton. 



Pine  spirit ! 

Breath  and  voice  of  a  wild  glade  I 

In  the  wild  forest  near  it, 

In  the  cool  hemlock  or  the  leafy  limb, 


Thou  didst  run  and  wander 

Thro'  the  sun  and  shade, 

An  elvish  echo  and  a  shadow  dim, 

There  in  the  twilight  thou  dost  lift  thy  song, 

And  give  the  stilly  woods  a  silver  tongue. 

Out  of  what  liquid  is  thy  laughter  made? 

A  sister  of  the  water  thou  dost  seem. 

The  quivering  cataract  thou  singest  near. 

Whose  glistening  stream. 

Unto  the  listening  ear. 

Thou  dost  outrun  with  thy  cascade 

Of  music  beautiful  and  swift  and  clear — 

A  joy  unto  the  mournful  forest  given  I 

As  when  afar 

A  travelling  star 

Across  our  midnight  races, 

A  moving  gleam  that'  swiftly  ceases. 

Lost  in  the  blue  black  abyss  of  heaven, 

So  doth  thy  light  and  silver  singing 

Start  and  thrill 

The  silence  round  thy  piney  hill. 

Unto  the  sober  hour  a  jewel  bringing — 

A  mystery — a  strain  of  rhythm  fleeing — 

A  vagrant  echo  winging 

Back  to  the  unuttered  theme  of  being ! 

Max  Eastman. 



In  precept  and  in  practice,  Mr.  Pater  has  typically  illustrated  the 
theory  of  writing  as  a  fine  art.  All  disinterested  lovers  of  books,  he 
says  at  one  place,  will  always  look  to  literature,  '^as  to  all  other  fine 
art,  for  a  refuge,  a  sort  of  cloistral  refuge,  from  a  certain  vulgarity  in 
the  actual  world.^*  Fine  art,  he  continues,  has  for  such  disinterested  lovers 
"something  of  the  uses  of  a  religious  'retreat,'  '*  and  it  is  for  a  "select 
few,"  for  "those  men  of  a  finer  thread  who  have  formed  and  maintained 
the  literary  ideal,''  that  literature  at  its  best  exists. 

A  "disinterested"  lover  of  literature,  however,  is  hard  to  conceive. 
Only  he  can  be  disinterested  who  looks  upon  literature  with  the  scientist's 
spirit,  as  something  to  be  examined  and  analyzed,  or  as  the  objectifying 
classicist  does,  as  an  activity  which  has  life  and  being  independent  of  the 
persons  through  whom  its  activity  is  manifested,  and  which  has  value 
independent  of  its  effect  upon  its  human  recipients.  It  is  mere  pride 
of  intellect  which  would  make  fine  art  in  writing  a  religious  retreat  for 
the  select  world- wearied  few,  a  pride  arising  from  the  artist's  satisfaction 
and  exultation  in  what  he  conceives  to  be  peculiar  to  himself  and  conse- 
quently higher  and  better  than  that  which  can  be  shared  with  others. 

As  to  the  "certain  vulgarity  in  the  actual  world,"  of  which  Mr.  Pater 
speaks,  it  is  diflicult  to  know  what  to  say.  We  have  not  here  to  do  with 
matters  of  reason,  of  common-sense,  but  with  matters  of  feeling,  of  tem- 
perament. In  the  eyes  of  one  of  Mr.  Pater's  way  of  thinking,  the  mere 
denial  of  the  vulgarity  of  the  actual  world  carries  no  weight.  The  denial 
invalidates  itself.  In  common  charity,  however,  the  alien  must  be  al- 
lowed to  express  his  belief.  That  a  tree  or  a  flower,  growing  and  blowing 
in  its  natural  setting,  or  a  man  or  a  woman  with  all  the  thousand  and 
one  accompaniments  of  life  that  an  artist  can  never  hope  to  represent, 
should  be  less  admirable  than  the  picture  of  a  tree  or  flower  or  of  a  man 
or  a  woman,  seems  hard  to  understand.  Remoter  from  the  actual  world 
the  picture  may  be,  but  is  there  any  essential  reason  why  remoteness  from 
actuality  should  result  in  a  quality  of  refinement  which  the  actual  itself 
lacks?  We  may  grant  that  the  appeal  of  the  picture  is  different  from  the 
appeal  of  the  living  fact,  we  may  assume  that  its  interest  is  less  intimate 
and  less  profound,  and  less  generally  moving  of  the  whole  complex  of  the 
human  soul;  but  that  it  is  for  these  reasons  higher,  or  better,  or  more 
comforting  to  the  spirit,  does  not  follow.  Is  it  not  indeed  a  weakness  to 
flee  from  the  actualities  of  the  real  world  and  to  seek  a  "cloistral  refuge" 


in  our  poor  limited  sentimental  transcriptions  of  the  actual  world  ?  Mar- 
vellous the  works  of  the  painter's  brush  and  of  the  writer's  pen  are  when 
they  are  viewed  from  the  side  of  human  inadequacy  and  ineffectiveness, 
but  they  sink  into  almost  contemptible  insignificance  when  we  measure 
them  against  the  exhaustless  and  effortless  richness  of  life  itself. 

A  sequence,  almost  a  necessary  sequence,  of  this  exaggerated  view  of 
the  value  of  art,  and  the  corresponding  depreciation  of  the  value  of  the 
actual  world,  is  the  belief  in  a  kind  of  mystical  sympathy  between  the 
thought  and  its  expression.  This  is  the  old  belief  in  an  absolute  standard 
of  excellence  beyond  that  of  human  experience,  and  Mr.  Pater  has  in- 
cluded this  doctrine  likewise  in  his  literary  creed.  The  well-known 
chapter  on  Euphuism  in  Marius  the  Epicurean  expresses  this  ideal.  Mr. 
Pater  here  uses  the  term  Euphuism  in  its  strictly  etymological  sense,  not 
in  the  commonly  accepted  sense  as  designating  certain  extravagant  char- 
acteristics of  Elizabethan  style,  centering  about  Lyly  and  his  contempo- 
raries. These  extravagances  he  regards  merely  as  the  accidents,  so  to 
speak,  of  Euphuism,  the  ^'fopperies  and  mannerisms'^  on  the  surface 
"symptomatic  of  that  deeper  yearning  of  human  nature  toward  ideal  per- 
fection, which  is  a  continuous  force  in  it."  And  this  is  the  essence 
of  Euphuism,  a  deep  regard  for  expression,  apart  from  thought,  a  quest 
for  an  ideal  perfection  of  form,  absolutely  and  inalterably  right  in  the 
nature  of  things.  At  another  place  he  quotes  sympathetically  from  a  com- 
mentator on  Flaubert,  the  latter's  belief  "in  some  mysterious  harmony 
of  expression,"  of  his  certainty  that  "there  exists  but  one  way  of  express- 
ing one  thing,  one  word  to  call  it  by,  one  adjective  to  qualify,  one  verb 
to  animate  it."  And  Mr.  Pater  adds  that  the  whole  problem  of  style  lies 
there,  in  the  finding  of  "the  unique  word,  phrase,  sentence,  paragraph, 
essay  or  story." 

As  a  practical  preventive  of  loose  and  careless  writing  this  doc- 
trine is  undoubtedly  of  great  service,  especially  to  beginners,  but  as  a 
defensible  philosophical  statement,  it  has  little  foundation  to  rest 
upon.  The  belief  in  a  unique  word  for  each  and  every  human  thought, 
implies  an  objective  counterpart  to  human  thought  in  language.  But  how 
has  the  language  come  into  existence?  It  is  merely  the  accumulated 
total  of  the  voluntary  linguistic  acts  of  all  the  past  generations  which 
have  used  the  language.  Now  the  race  has  lived  so  long,  has  passed 
through  the  experiences  conmion  to  humanity  so  frequently,  that  it  has 
in  most  instances  fashioned,  even  consecrated,  we  might  almost  say,  cer- 
tain words  for  their  appropriate  uses.  To  detach  violently  these  words 
from  their  uses  is  of  course  a  crime  against  all  the  sacred  customs  of  the 
speech.    But  we  cannot  for  a  moment  suppose  that  past  experience  has 

236  '^^^^  FORUM 

exhausted  all  the  possibilitieB  of  human  experience,  and  if  new  experiences 
arise,  how  can  there  be  already  existent  in  language  the  unique  word  or 
phrase  which  is  to  give  them  expression?  Flauberf  s  theory,  in  short,  does 
not  take  account  of  the  fact  that  language  is  a  human  invention,  is  indeed 
a  piece  of  practical,  human  machinery,  and  like  all  human  inventions,  it 
has  its  imperfections  and  inadequacies.  Logicians  are  fond  of  discussing 
how  far  language  conditions  thought  That  it  does  so  to  some  extent  can- 
not be  questioned,  and  the  literary  artist  in  seeking  his  final  and  unique 
word  is  often  compelled^  unconsciously  perhaps  to  himself,  to  adapt  his 
thought  to  the  exigencies  of  the  language.  When  he  has  brought  his 
thought  to  its  full  expression,  he  may  persuade  himself  that  it  could  not 
have  been  expressed  otherwise  by  a  syllable  or  a  comma,  but  this  is  a 
flattering  conviction,  an  emotional,  subjective  synthesis  of  his  thought 
and  his  expression,  which  may  not  appeal  to  others.  Even  the  crudest 
literaiy  artist,  as  observation  proves,  may  be  persuaded  of  the  ultimate 
perfection  of  his  art.  If  he  has  no  other  standard  of  propriety  in  ex- 
pression than  his  subjective  certainty,  if  his  only  test  is  that  he  ''feels'^  his 
expression  to  have  hit  the  unique  word  or  phrase,  the  likelihood  that  his 
expression  will  impress  others  as  it  does  himself  is  dependent  entirely 
upon  the  extent  of  the  past  experience  of  the  race  and  the  language  which 
he  has  assimilated  and  made  his  own. 

At  the  other  extreme  from  the  exaggerated  idealism  of  form  and 
art  in  writing,  lies  the  question  whether  modem  English  style  is  not 
tending  toward  an  extreme  and  narrow  utilitarianism.  In  the  broadly 
conceived  sense  of  that  term,  perhaps  style  can  never  become  too  utili- 
tarian. If  we  understand  the  purpose  of  language  to  be  the  expression 
of  the  whole  of  human  life,  then  tiie  justification  of  language  can  only 
be  its  use  in  the  realization  of  this  purpose.  Aside  from  this  use  it  has 
no  significance  and  no  value.  But  the  whole  of  human  life  is  an  ample 
field  for  the  activities  of  language,  and  such  a  generous  utilitarian  con- 
ception of  style  or  language  needs  no  defence.  Indications  are  not  lack- 
ing, however,  of  a  tendency  toward  a  much  narrower  interpretation  of  the 
purpose  and  meaning  of  literary  expression.  This  is  called  a  practical 
age,  and  the  description — or  charge — ^is  in  many  ways  justified.  That 
which  is  not  immediately  and  obviously  efficient,  is  put  on  the  defensive. 
We  are  inclined  to  measure  eveiything  by  an  economic  standard,  not 
necessarily  a  money-standard,  but  by  some  avowed  and  explicit  measure 
of  immediate  efficiency.  The  instinctive  test  of  likes  and  dislikes,  the 
cultivation  of  the  pleasant  merely  because  it  pleases,  of  the  beautiful 
because  it  is  beautiftd,  are  held  to  be  unsafe  rules  of  conduct,  and  un- 
worthy an  age  which  knows  its  own  mind  and  what  is  best  for  it. 


Literature  takes  on,  nowadays,  the  reportorial  tone  to  an  extent  never 
before  equalled  in  its  history.  The  newspapers  themselves,  one  of  the 
most  important  literary  phenomena  of  our  age^  are  of  course  the  greatest 
purveyors  of  fact  and  commentators  on  fact.  In  the  gradual  extension 
of  the  liberal  spirit  in  letters,  they  have  become  the  mouthpiece  of  the 
great  popular  party  whose  interests  as  yet  rarely  extend  beyond  the  con- 
crete facts  of  their  immediate  experience.  But  other  and  professedly 
higher  forms  of  literature  as  well,  the  drama,  the  novel,  the  essay,  con- 
cern themselves  mainly  with  newspaper  matters,  with  problems  and 
policies  which  differ  from  those  discussed  in  the  daily  press  only  in  that 
the  treatment  of  them  is  a  little  more  analytic  and  remote,  and  that  dates, 
places  and  real  names  are  not  supplied.  The  few  weak  efforts  made  to 
escape  from  the  tyranny  of  the  newspaper  report,  as  for  example  in  the 
artificial  historical  romance  or  tale  of  adventure,  or  in  the  melodramatic 
play,  only  emphasize  the  bondage  under  which  we  labor.  The  appealing 
subjects  to-day  are  men  and  women  in  the  immediate  relations  and  com- 
plications of  daily  life. 

In  all  this  there  is  nothing  that  in  itself  need  be  seriously  deplored. 
Literature  should  serve  as  a  medium  of  record  and  of  comment  on  life, 
and  we  may  rejoice  to  see  the  contact  between  the  experiences  of  life  and 
their  expression  as  general  and  as  intimate  as  it  is.  At  the  same  time, 
the  practical  interest  of  the  content  of  literature  to-day  tends  to  react 
upon  literary  expression  in  a  way  not  altogether  to  be  commended.  Im- 
portant as  the  qualities  of  efficient,  businesslike  directness  are,  they  should 
not  be  allowed  to  dominate  the  whole  of  English  expression.  There  are 
moods  in  which  sincerity  to  the  mood  lies  not  in  a  spare  efficiency,  but  in 
a  more  diffused,  less  obvious  and  less  direct  method  of  attack.  Our 
reportorial  English,  having  overcome  the  crude  vices  of  bombast  and 
turgidity,  tends  to  become  meagre  in  outline,  to  acquire  the  nervous  thin- 
ness of  the  highly  trained  athlete  or  race-horse.  But  style  should  not 
always  be  as  one  stripped  for  the  race,  and  in  writing  as  elsewhere,  the 
quickest  way  there  is  often  the  longest  way  around. 

A  typical  defence  of  the  neat  athletic  style  is  that  made  by  Herbert 
Spencer  in  his  essay  The  Philosophy  of  Style.  The  governing  idea  of 
Mr.  Spencer^s  philosophy  is  economy.  In  the  broad  significance  of  that 
term,  as  with  utilitarianism,  economy  is  a  sufficient  principle  to  cover  the 
whole  ground.  The  best  expression  is  undoubtedly  that  which  attains 
the  end  of  the  expression  most  certainly,  most  swiftly  and  with  the  least 
necessary  effort  Anything  which  diverts  attention  from  the  result  to  be 
attained  is  bad  because  it  necessarily  subtracts  by  so  much  from  the 
amoimt  of  energy  bestowed  upon  the  real  point  at  issue.    But  having 

238  THE  FORUM 

established  this  principle  of  economy,  Mr.  Spencer  makes  the  mistake  of 
supposing  that  it  will  be  more  forcible  if  he  limits  its  significance.  The 
best  English  style,  he  declares,  is  that  which  is  simple,  straightforward, 
direct.  The  best  vocabulary  is  the  Saxon  vocabulary,  because  its  words  are 
short,  therefore  produce  their  effect  immediately,  and  are  familiar  through 
long  use,  and  therefore  are  appreciated  without  effort.  Concrete  terms  are 
better  than  abstract  because  the  mental  accompaniment  of  concrete  ex- 
pression is  likely  to  be  more  definite  and  solid  than  of  abstract  express- 
sion.  Consequently,  says  Mr.  Spencer,  do  not  write  in  general  and  abstract 
terms,  but  in  concrete  and  specific  terms. 

The  obvious  objection  to  be  made  to  Mr.  Spencer's  interpretation  of 
his  principle  of  economy,  an  interpretation  which  he  himself  partially  cor- 
rects in  later  passages  of  his  essay,  is  that  economy  is  not  always  served 
by  blunt  and  concrete  expression.  Mr.  Spencer,  in  his  own  writings,  has 
shown  that  the  generalized  Latin  vocabulary  is  not  only  permissible,  but 
at  times  is  absolutely  essential  for  a  just  statement  of  the  ideas  which 
he  wished  to  express.  If  English  were  restricted  to  the  native  vocabtdary 
— granting  for  a  moment  the  possibility  of  the  impossible — ^it  would  mean 
a  return  to  the  meagre,  naive  scale  of  expression  which  characterized  the 
literature  of  the  pre-Renaissance  period,  it  would  mean  the  renunciation 
of  all  the  variety  in  phrasing,  the  melody  and  amplitude  of  cadence  won 
for  the  language  by  the  century  of  endeavor  from  Caxton  to  Shakespeare. 
It  would  mean,  in  short,  the  reversal  of  those  very  qualities  by  virtue  of 
which  modem  English  siyle  is  what  it  is.  The  cultivation  of  the  native, 
or  so-called  Saxon  vocabulary,  though  it  may  serve  as  a  corrective  of  the 
extravagant  and  high-fiown  diction  often  employed  by  untrained  writers, 
has  in  itself  no  virtue,  indeed  is  vicious  if  it  leads  to  a  neglect  of  the  varied 
possibilities  of  English  expression.  No  other  test  of  diction  or  manner 
of  phrasing  can  be  f  oimd  except  truth  to  the  thought  and  mood  which 
inspires  the  expression.  If  the  thought  is  simple  and  obvious  and  con- 
crete, then  the  expression  must  be  so;  but  a  thought  or  a  mood  which  is 
not  simple  or  obvious  or  concrete,  can  be  forced  into  the  mould  of  the 
simple  style  only  at  the  expense  of  truth  and  propriety  of  expression.  The 
words  elegant  and  elegance  have  grown  somewhat  old-fashioned,  perhaps 
have  been  worn  away  by  too  constant  use  in  a  period  when  they  were 
applied  to  anything  commendable  from  a  poem  to  a  bird-cage.  But  the 
quality  of  elegance  in  style,  of  the  nice  choice  of  phrasing  to  distinguish 
a  nicely  distinguished  mood,  is  one  that  the  writer  of  English  cannot 
afford  to  lose  in  a  blind  worship  of  a  narrow  and  practical  economy.  If 
he  does  so,  he  simply  errs  at  the  other  extreme  from  the  advocate  of  art 
for  art's  sake  in  writing. 


The  question  of  the  right  proportion  between  art  and  nature  in  Eng- 
lish style  fairly  raises  what  is  after  all  the  great^  the  fundamental  ques- 
tion of  English  style — ^the  question  of  the  relation  of  the  literary  and 
written  speech  to  the  natural  spoken  language.  Is  literary  English^  or 
rather  should  literary  English  strive  to  be,  something  diflEerent  from 
spoken  English?  That  they  are  in  fact  diflEerent  in  some  respects  is 
inherent  in  the  nature  of  the  two.  One  is  the  breath  of  a  moment,  it  is 
expression  by  means  of  lingual  gesture  forming  soimd;  it  is  addressed 
only  to  the  ear  and  it  is  always  accompanied  by  helps  to  intelligibility  in 
that  we  have  the  actual  physical  prozimation  of  the  individuals  between 
whom  the  communication  passes.  In  written  or  literary  expression,  how- 
ever, the  movements  of  the  vocal  organs  are  exchanged  for  a  motion  of  the 
fingers  and  hands;  it  has  to  express  itself  in  a  system  of  permanent, 
visible  symbols.  The  persons  who  are  concerned  in  the  communication  are 
often  himdreds  of  miles,  hundreds  of  years,  apart.  There  is  no  way  of 
qualifying  a  statement  by  a  smile  or  of  enforcing  it  by  the  gleam  of  the 
eye.  The  written  word  stands  not  for  what  it  is,  but  for  what  the  reader 
can  make  out  of  it.  The  prime  question  is,  therefore,  whether  this  differ- ' 
ence  in  the  method  of  expression  entails  a  necessary  and  essential  diflEer- 
ence  in  the  character  of  the  expression.  With  the  inexperienced  writer  we 
know  that  it  does.  When  the  farm  hand  lays  down  his  prong  and  takes 
his  pen  in  hand  to  write  a  few  lines,  he  feels  that  he  is  ^tering  on  a 
strange  and  new  activity  which  demands  imusual  and  violent  efEort.  He 
may  be  most  eloquent  in  addressing  his  horses,  but  a  few  simple 
ideas  to  be  expressed  on  paper  throw  him  into  an  agony  of  imcertainty 
and  terror.  What  the  ploughman  suflEers,  every  writer  suflEers  in 
his  degree.  We  all  write  at  some  remove  from  our  own  experience,  we 
write  with  awkward  and  crippling  stilts  at  the  ends  of  our  fingers. 
Not  only  to  the  literary  novice  is  the  act  of  writing  unusual;  with  most 
of  us  it  has  never  been  reduced  to  imconscious  habit,  as  spoken  lan- 
guage has,  and  so  it  is  hedged  about  by  all  sorts  of  hampering 

These  restraints,  however,  are  adventitious,  and  as  skill  increases 
gradually  disappear.  In  the  end  the  practiced  writer  expresses  himself  as 
freely  and  as  rapidly  in  writing  as  in  speaking — sometimes,  indeed,  more 
freely  and  rapidly.  But  the  mere  mechanical  inconveniences  of  literary 
expression  being  thus  overcome,  does  there  still  remain  an  essential  diflEer- 
ence  between  spoken  and  literary  style?  An  unprejudiced  comparison  of 
the  two  will  show  that  there  is  no  such  essential  diflEerence,  tiiat,  to  be 
'^terary,'^  expression  need  not  be  in  response  to  a  diflEerent  set  of  mental 
activities  from  those  which  result  in  spoken  expression,  and  furthermore, 

240  ^^^^^  FOBUM 

that  the  consdoiis  ''literaTy'^  intention  usually  results  in  qualities  of  style 
which  defeat  the  purpose  of  the  intention. 

The  range  of  spoken  expression  should  first  be  considered.  All  spoken 
English  is  not  necessarily  colloquial  English.  The  average  circumstances 
of  daily  life  do  not^  to  be  sure,  require  anything  other  than  the  relaxed 
forms  of  expression  which  we  call  colloquial;  these  forms  are  intelligible, 
and  the  general  tone  of  daily  conversation,  its  potential  energy,  does  not 
encourage  greater  effort  than  is  required  for  intelligibility.  But  spoken 
speech  is  not  all  on  one  plane  of  conversational  utterance.  As  soon  as  a 
new  element  enters  into  colloquial  communication,  as  soon  as  there  is  a 
slight  increase  of  passion,  of  formality,  of  earnestness,  as  soon  as  the 
audience  is  increased  in  size  and  diversity,  the  forms  of  the  language 
immediately  change;  the  speaker  immediately  chooses  different  words, 
different  phrases,  different  sentence  cadences,  and  all  these  changes  are  in 
the  direction  of  what  we  call  literary  expression.  It  has  often  been  ob- 
served that  people  in  the  height  of  passion  or  under  the  stress  of  great 
suffering  express  themselves  with  a  power  and  poetic  quality  altogether 
lacking  in  their  normal  speech.  These  unexpected  powers  are  an  ex- 
emplification of  the  fact  that  literature  and  the  literary  quality  exist  in 
essence  before  there  is  any  thought  of  putting  pen  to  paper.  Indeed  it 
is  only  necessary  to  imagine  the  state  of  affairs  before  the  art  of  writing 
existed  to  realize  that  writing  is  an  external  and  artificial  accompaniment 
of  literary  expression.  Intelligent  lovers  of  literature  may  be  foimd  who 
assert  that  dl  the  highest  and  best  forms  of  literature,  for  example, 
the  poetry  of  Homer,  were  composed  before  it  was  possible  to  record 
them  in  written  symbols.  And,  psychologists  of  to-day  tell  us  that  nine 
out  of  every  ten  writers  'Tiear'*  their  writing  before  they  put  it  down  on 
paper — ^they  hear  by  means  of  that  inner  ear  which  has  come  to  be  our 
second  nature  through  the  tens  of  thousands  of  generations  during  which 
we  have  grown  accustomed  to  the  spoken  word. 

The  attempt,  therefore,  to  find  in  literature  a  specific,  artistic  quality 
distinguishing  it  from  all  other  language  expression  is  artificial  and  un- 
true to  the  facts.  Literature  is  not  a  superior  form  of  expression,  it 
differs  from  oral  expression  only  in  the  mechanical  means  by  which  it  is 
recorded.  The  literary  quality  may  be  distinguished  from  the  colloquial 
quality,  but  colloquialism  is  only  one  of  the  many  forms  of  spoken  ex- 
pression. Eightly  viewed,  this  conception  of  the  nature  of  literary 
expression  should  not  be  regarded  as  lowering  the  dignity  of  literature  and 
the  literary  style.  It  is  no  defect  in  literature  that  it  is  an  echo,  a 
reflection  of  actual  life;  rather  it  is  its  highest  commendation.  Literary 
expression  can  become  mean  and  sordid  only  when  the  general  tone  of 


life  is  mean  and  sordid^  and  when  that  stage  of  affairs  is  reached  no 
amount  of  conscious  literary  artifice  will  save  literature  from  its  cer- 
tain fate.  Oeorge  Philip  Krapp. 



Hakk — ^how  the  bugles  blow, 
Airy  bugles  that  ring  I 

Full  of  wonder,  over  and  under 
All  other  tides  of  sound  I 
Oho  1  but  we  must  go. 
We  of  the  wandering  wing ! 
The  call  comes  drifting,  dying  and  lifting. 
And  we  are  northward  bound ! 

Drooping  plumes  of  the  palm, 
Scent  of  the  jasmine  flower. 
Lull  of  the  dreaming  waves  on  the  gleaming 
Heach  of  the  level  sands; 
Languorous  nights  of  calm, — 
How  we  have  longed  for  the  hour 

When  we  should  cry  to  them  gladly  good-bye  to  them. 
Seeking  the  northern  lands ! 

Too  much  swaying  at  ease  1 
Cloying  of  every  sense ! 
Naught  but  a  vision  ever  elysian, — 
Glamour  of  blue  and  gold  I 
Never  a  tang  in  the  breeze 
Drowsing  with  indolence ; 
Never  the  glory  of  mountains  hoary. 
White  with  the  touch  of  cold  I 

But  now — away !  away ! 
The  summoning  bugles  have  blown; 
The  spell  is  broken ;  we  know  the  token. 
We  of  the  wandering  wing ! 
On  through  the  night  and  day. 
Over  long  leagues  and  lone. 
Bearing,  bearing,  where'er  we're  faring 
The  word  and  the  wonder — Spring ! 

Clinton  Scollard. 


BY  J.   G.   8KAITU 



Jim  Lascblles  continued  his  labors.  He  arrived  at  Hill  Street  each 
morning  at  ten,  and  worked  with  diligence  until  two  p.m.  Urged  by  the 
forces  within  him  and  sustained  by  the  injudicious  counsel  of  his  mother, 
he  devoted  his  powers  to  the  yellow  hair,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  by  the 
terms  of  his  commission  it  was  his  duty  to  copy  the  auburn. 

About  three  days  after  the  dance  he  was  interrupted  one  morning 
by  Lord  Andover.  Jim  was  feeling  rather  depressed.  For  one  thing,  his 
conscience  smote  him.  He  had  deliberately  risked  the  loss  of  a  sum  of 
money  which  he  could  not  afford  to  lose,  and  further  it  was  most  likely 
that  he  was  about  to  offer  an  affront  to  his  only  patron.  The  more  work 
he  put  into  the  picture  the  more  marked  became  the  difference  between 
it  and  the  Gainsborough.  Again,  and  this  perhaps  was  an  equally  solid 
reason  for  his  depression,  this  morning  the  Ooose  Girl  had  forsaken  him. 
She  had  gone  for  a  ride  in  the  ])ark  with  her  duke. 

Doubtless  Andover  was  sharing  Jim's  depression.  At  least  when  he 
entered  the  drawing-room  to  inspect  the  labors  of  his  prot^g^,  a  counte- 
nance which  as  a  general  rule  made  a  point  of  exhibiting  a  scrupulous 
amiability  was  clouded  over. 

Andover's  scrutiny  of  Jim's  labors  was  long  and  particular. 

"I  invite  you  to  be  frank  with  me,  Lascelles,"  said  he.  "Is  this  a  copy 
of  the  Dorset  or  is  it  a  portrait  of  a  living  person?" 

By  nature  Jim  was  a  simple  and  ingenuous  fellow.  But  really  his 
present  predicament  was  so  awkward  that  he  did  not  know  what  reply 
to  make. 

"Some  of  it  is  Gainsborough,"  said  Jim  lamely,  "and  some  of  it,  I 
am  afraid,  is  nature." 

"I  am  sorry  to  say,  my  dear  Lascelles,"  said  Andover  judicially,  "that 
I  cannot  accept  that  as  an  adequate  answer  to  a  straightforward  question." 

"No,  it  is  not  a  very  good  answer,"  Jim  agreed. 

Suddenly  his  jaw  dropped  and  he  burst  into  a  queer  laugh. 

"The  fact  is.  Lord  Andover,"  said  Jim,  "I  am  in  a  hole." 

Andover  regarded  Jim  in  a  highly  critical  manner. 

'TTes,  Lascelles,"  said  he  slowly,  *T  think  you  are." 

^Copyright,  1906,  hg  Mofai,  Yard  and  Compatiy. 


''A  hole/'  Jim  repeated  with  additional  emphasis,  as  if  he  desired  to 
gain  confidence  from  a  frank  statement  of  his  trouble. 

Jim's  odd  face  seemed  to  appeal  for  a  little  sympathy,  but  not  a  sug- 
gestion of  it  was  forthcoming. 

''What  can  a  fellow  do?''  said  Jim  desperately.  "She  will  come  and 
sit  here  on  that  sofa  in  a  better  light  than  the  duchess.  The  sun  of  the 
morning  will  shine  upon  her;  and  when  Nature  comes  to  handle  pink 
and  white  and  blue  and  yellow  she  has  a  greater  magic  than  ever  Gains- 
borough had." 

Andover  shook  his  head  with  magisterial  solemnity. 

"Lascelles,"  said  he,  "you  have  a  very  weak  case.  And  I  feel  bound  to 
say  that  the  manner  in  which  you  present  it  does  not  in  my  opinion  make 
it  stronger." 

"I  expect  not,"  said  Jim  ruefully.  "But  dash  it  all,  what  is  a  fellow 
to  do  if  she  will  come  and  sit  on  that  sofa  and  pose  like  Ronmey's 

"His  duty  is  absolutely  clear  to  my  mind,"  said  Andover,  "and  I  think 
it  is  simple.    He  should  order  the  intruder  out  of  the  room." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  know,"  said  Jim,  "that  is  what  a  really  strong  chap  would 
do."  Jim  gave  a  groan.  "I  know  that  is  what  a  Velasquez  or  a  Rem- 
brandt would  have  done.  And  he  would  have  cursed  her  like  fury  for 
sitting  there  at  all." 

"Yes,  I  think  so,"  said  Andover  suavely.    "Rembrandt  especially.    In  " 
my  opinion  Rembrandt  would  have  shaken  his  fist  at  her." 

"That  is  the  worst  of  being  a  mediocrity,"  said  Jim  gloomily.  "It 
takes  a  chap  with  enormous  character  to  do  these  things." 

"I  am  afraid,  Lascelles,"  said  Andover,  "the  plea  of  mediocrity  will 
do  nothing  for  you.  If  anything  it  weakens  your  case.  Personally,  if 
I  were  advising  you,  I  should  say  either  put  in  a  plea  of  consummate 
genius  or  do  not  put  in  a  plea  at  all." 

"I  am  not  such  a  fool  as  to  believe  that  I'm  a  genius,"  said  Jim  with 
excellent  honesty. 

"I  am  not  such  a  fool  as  to  believe  you  are  either,"  said  Andover 
with  a  frankness  that  was  equally  excellent.  "And,  therefore,  examining 
you  conduct  with  all  the  leniency  the  circumstances  will  permit,  I  am 
imable  to  find  the  least  excuse  for  it.  I  fear  my  old  friend  Lady 
Crewkeme  is  much  annoyed — ^forgive  my  plainness,  Lascelles,  but  I  feel 
it  to  be  necessary — ^by  your  presumption  in  copying  her  niece  instead  of 
her  Oainsborough;  and  I  as  an  old  friend  of  the  house  feel  bound  to 
share  her  disapproval." 

"Rub  it  in,"  said  Jim. 

244  THE  FORUM 

He  stuck  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  began  to  whistle  softly  with  an 
air  of  supreme  discomfiture. 

'TiTes,  Lascdles,  I  intend  to  do  so,"  said  Andover.  "In  fact  I  find  it 
difiicult  to  say  all  that  I  should  like  to  do  upon  the  subject,  without 
actually  saymg  more  than  one  who  was  at  school  with  your  father  would 
feel  it  desirable  to  say  to  a  young  man  who  has  his  own  way  to  make  in 
the  world." 

"Say  just  as  much  as  you  like,"  said  Jim.  "I  know  I  have  made  an 
ass  of  myself.  And,  of  course,  I  haven^t  a  leg  to  stand  on  really.  And 
I  expect  the  old  cat  will  have  me  on  the  carpet  too." 

Andover  dropped  his  eyeglass  with  an  air  of  dignified  agitation. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Lascelles,"  said  he.    "To  whom  do  you  refer?" 

"To  that  damned  old  woman,"  said  Jim  Lascelles,  with  an  unabashed 

"Can  it  be  possible,"  said  Andover,  "that  you  refer  to  Caroline  Crew- 
kerne,  my  oldest  friend?" 

"I  mean  the  aunt  of  Nature's  immortal  work,"  said  Jim  coolly.  "I 
really  can't  help  it ;  I  feel  that  I  must  curse  somebody  this  morning.  And 
as  she  is  bound  to  curse  me,  I  don't  see  why  I  shouldn't  curse  her." 

'TTour  habit  of  explanation,  Lascelles,  is  decidedly  unfortunate." 

"Well,  tell  me  the  worst,"  said  Jim  ruefully.  "I  suppose  you  with- 
draw your  offer;  and  I  am  to  be  bundled  out  neck  and  crop  with  my  can- 
vas and  forbidden  to  come  here  again." 

"I  certainly  withdraw  my  ofifer,"  said  Andover.  "In  regard  to  pro- 
hibition of  the  house,  that  of  course  rests  entirely  with  my  old  friend, 
of  whom  you  have  spoken  in  a  singularly  disrespectful  and,  shall  I  say, 
ungentlemanlike  manner." 

"I  couldn't  help  it,"  said  Jim  humbly.  ^TLt  would  slip  out.  But,  of 
course,  I'm  in  the  wrong  altogether." 

"You  are  undoubtedly.  To  my  mind  you  are  more  in  the  wrong  than 
I  could  have  believed  it  possible  for  any  man  of  your  age,  upbringing  and 
antecedents  to  be." 

'If  a  confounded  girl,"  said  Jim,  "will  come  in  to  ask  you  what 
your  opinion  is  of  her  hat  and  her  frock,  and  whether  you  have  ever 
tasted  cream  buns  and  pink  ices,  and  whether  you  think  MuflBn's  mauve 
was  as  nice  as  her  lilac  is ^" 

"Ify  dear  Lascelles,"  interrupted  Andover,  "your  habit  of  explanation  ^ 
is  really  most  unfortunate." 

*^ell,  kick  me  out  and  my  canvas  too,"  said  Jim  desperately,  "and 
have  done  with  it." 

Jim  Lascelles,  like  the  rash  and  hasty  fellow  that  he  was,  feeling 


himself  to  be  irretrievably  disgraced  and  that  he  had  forfeited  forever 
the  respect  and  good  will  of  his  only  patron^  proceeded  to  pack  up  his 
brushes  and  his  pigments. 

*The  former  part  of  your  suggestion,  Lascdles/*  said  Andover,  "is 
much  the  simpler  matter  of  the  two.  But  in  the  matter  of  the  half 
finished  canvas  I  foresee  difiiculty/^ 

'TTou  have  repudiated  it,  haven't  you?"  said  Jim  rather  fiercely. 

'•'Unquestionably  as  a  copy  of  the  Dorset,"  said  Andover.  '^ut  all  the 
same  I  do  not  think  it  can  be  permitted  to  leave  this  house." 

''Why  not?"  said  Jim. 

"It  is  an  unauthorized  portrait,"  said  Andover,  "of  my  ward,  Miss 
Perry,  who  at  present  is  in  statu  pupUlari/' 

"Yes,"  said  Jim  dubiously.  "I  suppose  it  is.  All  the  same  it  is  rather 
hard  on  a  fellow.    I  have  put  a  lot  of  work  into  that  picture." 

"I  can  see  you  have,  Lascelles." 

"And  of  course,"  said  Jim  injudiciously,  "I  should  like  to  put  a  lot 
more  work  into  it.    It  is  such  a  fine  subject." 

"The  subject  is  much  too  fine,  Lascelles,  if  I  may  venture  an  opinion, 
my  advice  to  you  is  bum  the  canvas  and  forget  that  it  ever  existed." 

No  pity  was  taken  on  Jim's  blank  consternation. 

"Bum  it  1"  cried  Jim,  aghast. 

"I  am  afraid  if  you  don't,  my  dear  Lascelles,  Lady  Grewkeme  will." 

"But  she  has  no  right — "  said  Jim  fiercely. 

"I  am  afraid,  my  dear  fellow,  her  right  is  not  to  be  contested.  To  my 
mind  this  half  finished  canvas  is  far  more  her  property  than  it  is  yours." 

"Well,"  said  Jim  apprehensively,  "I  shall  remove  it  at  once  to  my 

Andover  had  dropped  his  little  bombshell.  The  gyrations  of  his  vic- 
tim, whom  he  had  fully  alarmed,  seemed  to  afford  him  a  great  deal  of 

"Let  us  take  it  a  little  easier,  my  dear  fellow,"  said  he.  "I  agree  with 
you  that  it  would  be  a  great  pity  to  destroy  such  an  extremely  promising 
work  of  art.    Let  us  seek  for  an  alternative." 

"The  only  alternative  I  can  see,"  said  Jim,  "is  that  I  should  remove 
it  at  once." 

"In  its  half  finished  state?    That  would  be  a  pity." 

"Well,  I  don't  mean  it  to  be  burnt  if  I  can  help  it,"  said  Jim. 

During  the  pause  which  followed  Jim  looked  highly  perplexed,  a 
little  disconcerted  and  also  somewhat  belligerent. 

"I  have  a  suggestion  to  make  to  you,  Lascelles,"  said  his  patron.  "In 
the  circumstances  I  think  it  is  quite  the  most  you  can  hope  for." 


''1  shall  be  happy  to  hear  it/'  said  Jim^  with  a  rueful  smile. 

''Fir«t>''  said  Andover,  ''it  seems  to  me  that  the  best  thing  I  can  do 
is  to  get  the  permission  of  Lady  Crewkeme  for  you  to  finish  the  portrait 
of  her  niece.  Now,  I  warn  you  it  may  not  be  easy.  As  I  think  you  have 
ivnjectuied,  she  is  a  difficult  member  of  a  most  difficult  sex.  But  I  am 
only  prepared  to  do  this  upon  one  definite  understanding.'' 

"What  is  it  ?*'  asked  Jim,  in  a  tone  that  was  not  very  hopef uL 

"The  understanding  must  be  this,  Lascelles,"  said  Andover,  with  a 
very  businesslike  air.  "As  you  have  treated  me  so  abominably — I  r^et 
exceedingly  that  candour  compels  me  to  use  the  term — ^if  I  obtain  per- 
mission for  you  to  complete  your  portrait  of  Miss  Perry,  I  shall  insist 
upon  being  allowed  to  purchase  it  upon  my  own  terms." 

"Yes,"  said  Jim,  "that  is  only  fair." 

It  seemed  to  him  that  things  were  taking  a  much  more  favorable 
course  than  he  could  have  hoped  for. 

"If  I  can  get  permission  for  you,  Lascelles,"  said  Andover,  "to  com- 
plete that  picture,  and  you  finish  it  as  well  as  you  have  begun  it,  it  will  be 
a  pleasure  to  hang  it  at  Andover  House." 

Jim  Lascelles  was  touched  by  the  kindness  of  his  patron. 

"I  didn't  quite  see  my  way,"  said  he,  with  admirable  simplicity,  "to 
offer  you  an  apology  for  my  rotten  behavior,  because  you  know  you  did 
rub  it  in,  but  I  am  going  to  now.  And  I  hope  youll  accept  it  because 
you've  been  so  kind  to  me — ^much  kinder  to  me  than  you  ought  to  have 
been  really." 

"Yes,  Lascelles,"  said  Andover  impartially,  "I  am  inclined  to  take 
that  view  myself.  But  your  father  was  good  to  me  at  school;  and  you 
are  young  and  you  have  talent  and  you  have  a  great  subject  to  work  upon, 
and  I  can't  help  feeling  that  it  would  be  a  pity  if  you  lost  the  opportunity 
which  in  a  sense  you  have  already  had  the  wit  to  create.  Mind,  Lascelles, 
I  don't  excuse  you  in  the  least.  I  palliate  nothing;  take  your  conduct  all 
round,  it  has  been  abominable;  but  in  my  humble  judgment,  had  it  been 
more  correct  than  it  has  been,  I  personally  should  not  take  such  a  hopeful 
view  of  your  future.  For  you  have  conformed  to  my  fundamental  belief 
that  all  the  men  who  are  worth  anything  must  begin  by  breaking  the 
rules.  Although  always  remember,  my  dear  Lascelles,  when  you  come  to 
breaking  the  rules,  that  it  is  very  easy  to  get  expelled  the  school.  And 
should  tiiat  happen — ^well,  of  course,  you  are  done  for  unless  you  are  able 
to  found  a  school  of  your  own." 

Jim  Lascelles  forbore  to  smile  at  this  piece  of  didacticism.  He  was 
very  full  of  gratitude.  Tlie  old  fogey  had  behaved  so  much  more  nicely 
than  he  need  have  done. 


*^f  only  I  had  genius,"  said  Jim,  "I  would  give  up  my  days  to  the 
fashioning  of  the  most  absolute  masterpiece  that  ever  adorned  Andover 

"You  remember  Carlyle's  definition?"  said  the  owner  thereof. 

"Carlyle  was  an  old  fool,"  said  Jim. 

^That  was  always  my  opinion,"  said  Andover.  "And  I  once  had  the 
privilege  of  telling  him  so,  and  what  is  more,  the  noisy  fellow  admitted  it. 
Doubtless  what  he  meant  to  express  by  his  definition  was  the  fact  that 
Genius  is  perfect  submission  to  the  Idea." 

'^ell,  here  goes  for  perfect  submission  to  the  Idea,"  said  Jim  Las- 

He  took  up  his  brush  and  his  palette  and  gave  a  very  deft  touch  to 
the  vestments  of  Miss  Perry. 

"Do  you  like  my  new  riding  habit?"  said  a  perfectly  ludicrous  drawl 
coming  in  through  the  door. 

Jim  Lascelles  made  a  gesture  of  despair.  He  kept  his  back  turned 
upon  the  new  riding  habit  resolutely. 

"Dear  me,"  said  Andover,  "Artemis." 

"Isn't  it  silly?"  said  Miss  Perry.  "They  don't  like  you  to  jump  the 
railings  in  Botten  Bow." 

'TiVTiat  is  the  source  of  your  information?"    Andover  inquired. 

"Gobo  says  so,"  said  Miss  Perry. 

"Put  not  your  faith  in  that  man,  my  dear  Miss  (roose,"  said  Andover 
mellifluously.    *1t  is  only  because  he  is  afraid  of  taking  a  toss." 

"But  they  have  got  p-p-policemen,"  said  Miss  Perry  impres- 

There  is  no  doubt  that  in  her  new  riding  habit  Miss  Perry  looked 
perfectly  distracting.  Andover  thought  so.  As  for  Jim  Lascelles,  he 
waved  her  away  from  him  with  great  energy. 

"That  is  the  sort  of  thing,"  said  he  with  an  appeal  for  sympathy  and 

"Miss  Goose,"  said  Andover,  'Ttfr.  Lascelles  has  made  a  serious  indict- 
ment against  you." 

"Has  he?*^  said  Miss  Perry,  opening  very  large,  very  round,  and  very 
blue  eyes  upon  Jim. 

"Mr.  Lascelles  complains,"  said  Andover,  with  paternal  severity,  "that 
while  he  is  assiduously  engaged  in  copying  that  famous  portrait  of  your 
great-grandmamma,  you  persist  in  coming  into  this  room  in  your 
smartest  gowns;  in  sitting  in  the  middle  of  that  sofa;  in  absorbing  the 
best  light;  in  posing  in  a  manner  that  no  really  sensitive  painter  can  pos- 
sibly resist;  with  the  melancholy  result  that  you  literally  force  him  to 

248  '^^^^^  FORUM 

paint  you  instead  of  your  great-grandmamma^  qnite^  as  he  assures  me^ 
against  his  rational  judgment  and  his  natural  inclination.^' 

"Oh,  I  don't  mind  at  all,"  said  Miss  Perry,  with  charming  friendli- 
ness. "It  made  me  rather  tired  at  first  holding  my  chin  like  this,  but  at 
the  end  of  an  hour  I  always  get  a  cream  bun." 

"At  the  end  of  an  hour  you  always  get  a  cream  bun !  Do  you,  in- 

^TTes,"  said  Miss  Perry,  "small  ones,  but  they  are  almost  as  nice  as 
the  large  ones." 

"I  hope,  Lascelles,"  said  Andover,  "you  have  something  to  offer  by 
way  of  extenuation." 

'TV'ell,  what  can  a  fellow  do  ?"  said  Jim  desperately.  ^'What  with  the 
sun  stuck  up  there,  and  this  pink  and  white  and  blue  and  yellow  ar- 
rangement !  As  for  the  chin — ^well,  if  a  chin  will  curve  like  that  it  must 
take  the  consequences." 

Andover  was  shocked. 

"Say  as  little  as  possible,  Lascelles,  I  entreat  you,"  said  he.  '?our 
case  is  hopeless.  But  I  feel  bound  to  say  this.  Since  we  have  had  this 
astounding  allegation  of  xthe  cream  buns,  without  probing  the  matter 
to  the  depths,  which  I  am  really  afraid  to  do,  I  must  say  your  future  as  a 
painter  seems  more  roseate  than  ever." 

"Thank  you.  Lord  Andover,"  said  Jim  modestly. 

'%ut  in  r^ard  to  your  future  as  a  human  being,  as  a  unit  of  society, 
I  prefer  to  exercise  a  wise  discretion,  which  will  take  tiie  form  of  saying 
nothing  whatever  upon  the  subject." 

*Thank  you.  Lord  Andover,"  said  Jim  again. 

Jim  Lascelles  then  turned  his  gaze  upon  Miss  Perry.  It  was  of  such 
singular  resolution  that  it  seemed  as  if  he  sought  to  hypnotize  that  ir- 
responsible person  to  maintain  tiie  semblance  of  discretion. 

^Tt  you  will  go  and  put  on  that  new  frock,"  said  he  in  a  manner  that 
Andover  was  forced  to  regard  as  effrontery,  'Ve  can  get  just  an  hour  be- 
fore luncheon,  and  then  to-morrow  you  will  start  a  cream  bun 
in  hand." 

The  prospect  offered  seemed  sufficiently  enticing  to  Miss  Perry. 

'Tee,"  said  she,  "that  wUl  be  nice." 

She  left  the  room  with  great  cheerfulness. 

Andover  regarded  Jim  Lascelles  with  that  paternal  air  which  he 
was  wont  to  assume  rather  frequently  toward  the  world  in  general. 

"Lascelles,"  said  he,  ^*I  shall  have  to  revise  my  estimate  of  your  at- 
tainments. It  is  becoming  increasingly  clear  to  my  mind  that  you  may 
go  far." 


*'Qillet  said,  if  I  applied  myself/'  said  Jim,  without  immodesty,  "I 
might  be  able  one  day  to  paint  a  portrait/' 

"GiUef  s  opinion  is  valuable,''  said  Andover,  with  rather  the  air  of 
one  who  set  a  higher  value  upon  his  own  opinion  than  he  did  upon  that 
of  Gillet.  He  examined  Jim's  work  very  critically.  'TTes,"  he  said, 
"there  are  latent  possibilities.  You  have  had  the  wit  to  find  a  subject, 
and  if  you  continue  as  you  have  begun  there  seems  much  to  be  made  out 
of  it" 

Jim's  face  expressed  his  pleasure.  He  was  a  simple  fellow  enough,  but 
he  had  ambitions  of  a  kind. 

'^Lascelles/'  said  his  patron,  "may  I  give  you  a  word  of  advice?" 
Jim  expressed  himself  gratified  at  the  prospect  of  receiving  it. 
"It  is  this/'  said  Andover  slowly.    'TTou  must  get  into  the  habit  of 
charging  more  for  your  pictures." 

"I  hope  I  shall  be  able  to/'  said  Jim.  'TSut  times  are  hard  and  it  is 
uphill  work  for  a  man  without  a  reputation." 

"I  appreciate  that/'  said  Andover.  "But  I  heard  you  spoken  of  as  the 
coming  man  the  other  night,  and  I  see  no  reason  why  you  shouldn't  con- 
firm the  prediction." 

"If  only  I  had  a  little  more  talent,"  said  Jim. 
'r[f  only  you  had  a  little  more  faith  in  it,  Lascelles.    It  is  the  faith 
that  is  so  necessary,  as  every  artist  tells  us." 

"I  suppose  so/'  said  Jim.  ^TTet  all  the  same  I  wish  the  fairies  had 
been  a  little  kinder." 

"I  am  of  opinion  that  they  have  been  suflSciently  kind,"  said  Andover, 
"to  the  man  who  could  pose  that  head  and  put  that  hair  upon  canvas. 
But  what  I  wanted  particularly  to  say  to  you  is  this.  My  friend  Kendal 
intends  to  ask  you  to  paint  a  portrait  of  his  daughter  Priscilla." 
Jim  Lascelles  was  thrilled  by  this  announcement. 
"That  is  awfully  good  of  him,"  said  he,  "and  awfully  good  of  you. 
Lord  Andover." 

'Terhaps  I  have  the  more  genuine  title  to  your  gratitude,"  said 
Andover  amiably,  *T)ecause  as  far  as  Kendal  is  concerned  he  is  one  of 
those  undisceming  and  sluggish  fellows  who  always  prefer  to  take  some 
one  else's  opinion  rather  than  form  one  of  their  own.  I  told  him  you  were 
the  man  to  paint  his  daughter  Priscilla,  and  he  was  only  too  glad  to  have 
my  word  for  it.    And  I  am  by  no  means  sure  you  are  not." 

Jim  Lascelles  was  at  a  loss  to  know  how  to  express  his  sense  of  obliga- 
tion, particularly  as  he  could  not  help  feeling  that  he  was  not  entitled  to 
receive  such  kindness. 

"I  wish  now,"  said  Jim,  'T!  hadn't  behaved  so  badly/' 

250  '^^^  FORUM 

^'The  worst  of  any  sort  of  bad  behayior/'  said  Andoyer  sententiously, 
''is  that  it  carries  such  a  heavy  premium.  But  no  matter.  The  chief 
thing  is  to  behave  well  to  my  friend  Kendal.  Paint  his  daughter  Priscilla 
to  the  best  of  your  ability,  and  be  careful  to  charge  him  five  hundred 

Jim  was  staggered. 

"Five  hundred  guineas !"  said  he.  ''Why,  he  will  never  pay  it !  He 
could  get  an  absolute  first  rater  for  that  sum" 

Andover  smiled  sagaciously. 

"Doubtless  he  could/'  said  he;  "and  if  my  friend  Kendal  pays  five 
hundred  guineas  he  will  consider  he's  got  one.  When  I  come  to  examine 
it  on  the  wall  of  his  gloomy  and  draughty  dining-room  in  Yorkshire,  I 
shall  say,  'Kendal,  that  picture  of  Priscilla  appears  to  be  an  uncommonly 
sound  piece  of  work.'  And  he  will  say,  as  proud  as  you  please,  1  should 
think  it  was,  my  dear  fellow.  That  young  chap  Lascelles  turned  out  ab- 
solutely first  rate.  He  charged  five  hundred  guineas  for  that  picture.  I 
am  telling  everybody.' " 

Jim  Lascelles  found  it  hard  to  accept  his  good  fortune.  Further  he 
seemed  to  be  rather  troubled  by  it. 

"I  hope  it  is  quite  fair  to  Lord  Kendal,"  he  said,  "to  charge  him  five 
hundred  guineas  for  a  picture  I  should  be  only  too  glad  to  paint  for 

Andover  was  amused. 

"My  dear  Lascelles,"  said  he,  "simplicity  is  greatly  to  be  desired  in 
art,  but  it  is  well  not  to  take  it  into  the  market-place.  There  is  the  man 
with  whom  you  are  doing  business  to  be  considered.  If  my  friend  Kendal 
paid  fifty  guineas  for  the  picture  of  his  daughter  Priscilla  he  would 
think  exactly  ten  times  less  of  it  than  if  he  paid  five  hundred;  and  in- 
stead of  hanging  it  in  his  dining-room  in  the  worst  possible  light  he 
would  hang  it  in  one  of  the  smaller  bedrooms  in  a  very  much  better 

Andover's  homily  was  interrupted  at  this  point  by  the  return  of 
Miss  Perry.  In  her  Gainsborough  gown,  which  she  had  worn  at  the 
fancy  ball,  and  in  her  "runcible"  hat,  which  by  some  miracle  had  been 
clapped  on  at  just  the  right  angle,  she  looked  more  distracting  than  any 
human  creature  ought  really  to  do.  She  seated  herself  in  the  middle  of 
the  sofa  with  great  composure,  tilted  her  chin  to  the  light  of  the  morn- 
ing, and  folded  her  hands  in  her  lap  with  almost  the  air  of  a  professional. 
"Out  for  blood,"  said  Jim  approvingly. 
"Lascelles,"  said  Andover,  "I  am  almost  afraid  this  means  a  large 


^TTes/*  said  Jim,  "I  am  a  poor  and  obscure  painter,  but  this  zeal  to 
serve  the  arts  really  merits  encouragement** 

'Terhaps,  Lascelles,**  said  Andover,  "if  Buzzards  are  sincerely  inter- 
ested in  art,  as  one  feels  sure  they  must  be,  they  might  be  induced  to 
make  a  reduction  upon  the  large  ones  if  you  contracted  for  a  quantity/* 

Jim  Lascelles  was  frankly  delighted  with  the  pose  and  worked  very 
happily.  He  was  in  high  spirits.  Thanks  to  Andover*8  generosity  he  had 
got  out  of  his  difficulty  far  more  easily  than  he  could  have  hoped  to  have 
done.  His  future  prospects  had  also  taken  a  sudden  and  remarkable  turn 
for  the  better.  Yet  apart  from  these  considerations  his  subject  fired  him. 
As  he  worked  during  this  precious  hour  he  felt  that  his  execution  had 
never  had  such  boldness,  freedom  and  authenticity. 

Andover  watched  his  protege  with  approval.  As  a  critic  he  was  suf- 
ficiently accomplished  to  detect  great  possibilities  in  Jim*s  method.  Here 
might  be  a  genuine  "trouvaille,**  if  the  young  fellow  only  had  thorough- 
ness as  well  as  courage. 

Miss  Perry  had  not  moved  her  chin  once  for  nearly  an  hour,  so  that 
she  felt  her  guerdon  was  as  good  as  earned;  Jim  LasceUes  had  yielded  for 
the  same  period  to  a  genuine  inspiration;  and  Andover  sat  at  his  ease 
watching  with  every  outward  sign  of  satisfaction  the  fair  fruits  which 
were  springing  from  his  liberal  treatment  of  the  artistic  temper,  when  this 
harmony  of  sitter,  painter  and  patron  was  gravely  imperilled  by  the  en- 
trance of  a  little  fat  dog.  As  usual  he  heralded  the  approach  of  an  old 
woman  leaning  upon  an  ebony  stick. 

No  sooner  had  the  old  woman  entered  the  blue  drawing-room  than 
she  stood  dumfounded  with  amazement.  And  yet  there  is  reason  to  be- 
lieve that  this  attitude  was  in  some  measure  assumed.  Jim  Lascelles 
continued  to  ply  his  brush  in  blissful  ignorance  of  her  presence;  Miss 
Perry  for  political  reasons  continued  strictly  to  maintain  her  pose.  An- 
dover, however,  put  up  a  solemn  forefinger.  Nevertheless,  signs  were  not 
wanting  that  the  mistress  of  the  house  was  about  to  disregard  his  warning. 

"Ssssh,  Caroline,**  said  he. 

'TVhat,  pray,  is  the  meaning  of  this?*'  demanded  the  old  lady. 

"This  is  a  most  critical  stage,**  said  Andover.  "Three  minutes  more 
and  I  shall  invite  you  to  speak  with  freedom.** 

"Tell  me,**  snorted  the  old  lady.  "Why  is  that  girl  sitting  there  in 
that  manner  in  the  gewgaws  of  a  playactress  ?** 

"Sssh,  Caroline,**  said  Andover.    *T3on't  you  see?** 

The  perfect  composure  of  the  fair  sitter,  and  the  fact  that  she  chose 
to  remain  deaf,  dumb  and  blind  to  the  intruder,  seemed  to  exasperate 
that  autocrat. 


"Tell  me,  girl,  what  is  the  meaning  of  it?"  she  stormed. 

She  beat  the  carpet  with  the  ebony  walking  stick. 

'TMEove  not  the  Chin  Piece,  the  young  man  said,'*  Jim  whispered. 

The  filmy,  faraway  look  continued  in  the  eyes  of  Miss  Perry.  She 
paid  heed  to  none. 

Andover  held  up  his  forefinger  very  gravely. 

"Sssh,  Caroline,*'  said  he.  "One  short  and  brief  minute  more.  The 
whole  situation  is  most  critical.'* 

"Is  the  creature  hypnotized?'*  demanded  Caroline. 

"Yes,"  said  Andover,  "she  is  undoubtedly." 

"Who  gave  permission  for  her  to  sit  for  her  portrait?"  demanded  the 
old  lady.    *T[n  those  fal-lals,  too." 

"Niature  gave  her  permission,"  said  Andover,  "amiable  old  dame,/ Na- 
ture.   She  couldn't  refuse  it." 

"I  forbid  it,"  said  the  old  lady  with  all  the  energy  of  which  she  was 
capable.    'It  is  disgraceful.    It  shall  not  go  on." 

Then  it  was  that  Miss  Perry  spoke. 

"Large  cream  bun  to-morrow  morning,  please,"  said  she. 

"Is  it  an  hour  ?"  said  Jim  Lascelles.  'Dear  me  1  how  time  flies.  One 
can  hardly  believe  it." 

"Girl,"  said  the  old  lady,  'T  demand  an  explanation." 

As  Miss  Perry  seemed  to  have  no  explanation  to  offer,  Andover  came 
to  her  aid. 

"The  truth  is,"  said  he  in  honeyed  tones,  "my  distinguished  young 
friend  Lascelles  is  the  victim  of  a  very  natural  error.  My  idea  was  of 
course,  Caroline,  as  you  are  aware,  that  he  should  come  here  to  copy 
your  Gainsborough;  but  it  would  appear  that  he  has  put  another  inter- 
pretation upon  his  mandate.  And  I  feel  bound  to  confess  that  I  for  one 
cannot  blame  him." 

Caroline  Crewkeme,  however,  was  not  appeased  so  easily. 

"In  my  opinion,"  said  she,  "it  is  unpardonable  that  any  man  should 
take  it  upon  himself  to  paint  clandestinely  the  portrait  of  my  niece. 
And  in  my  house  too." 

Jim  held  himself  very  proudly  and  perhaps  a  little  disdainfully  also. 
The  old  woman's  tone  was  certainly  offensive. 

'TJady  Crewkeme,"  said  he,  not  so  humbly  as  he  might  have  done, 
"I  will  admit  that  I  have  done  wrong,  but  I  hope  my  offence  is  not  a 
very  grave  one." 

The  old  lady  looked  Jim  over  very  scornfully.  She  was  evidently  not 
quite  sure  whether  such  presumption  was  entitled  to  a  reply  at  all. 

"It  depends  upon  the  light  in  which  one  chooses  to  view  the  sub- 


ject/'  said  she  in  a  voice  which  trembled  with  anger.  ^T.  have  fonned 
my  own  opinion  about  such  behavior.  I  must  ask  you  to  leave  this 
house  immediately  and  in  future  it  will  be  closed  to  you." 

Jim  was  stung.  The  mildest-mannered  fellow  in  the  world  would 
have  been  by  such  an  unbridled  display  of  despotism.  Andover,  who  by 
long  association  with  the  Whigs  understood  their  arbitrary  nature^  was 
really  less  shocked  by  such  an  uncivil  exhibition  than  he  pretended  to  be. 
He  took  Jim  Lascelles  by  the  sleeve,  drew  him  aside  and  bestowed  a 
whimsical  smile  upon  him. 

''Say  nothing,  my  dear  fellow,"  said  he  in  a  sagacious  and  paternal 
manner.    "Give  her  her  head  and  then  leave  her  to  me." 

Jim  Lascelles,  however,  was  furious.  He  was  young  and  hot-headed; 
and  adversity  had  rendered  him  more  sensitive  upon  the  score  of  his  per- 
sonal dignity  than  it  is  wise  for  a  young  fellow  to  be.  Therefore,  he  was 
by  no  means  disposed  to  leave  the  adjustment  of  the  matter  to  his  friend. 
Not  by  his  demeanor  only  did  he  express  resentment,  but  by  word  and  by 
deed  also. 

'1  am  sorry.  Lady  Crewkeme,  you  have  taken  this  view,"  said  he 
not  very  pacifically.  "I  shall  be  quite  happy  to  obey  your  instructions. 
A  couple  of  men  will  come  from  Peabody^s  this  afternoon  to  fetch  the 

And  then  with  an  incredible  absence  of  judgment  Jim  Lascelles 
packed  up  his  tools,  and  distributing  curt  bows  to  everybody,  stalked  out 
of  the  room  and  out  of  the  house. 

Andover  showed  genuine  consternation.  Miss  Perry  looked  ready  to 
shed  tears.    Cream  buns  apart,  she  was  very  fond  of  Jim. 

''An  incomprehensibly  foolish  thing  to  have  done,"  said  An- 

"A  deplorable  exhibition  of  impudence,"  said  Caroline  Crewkeme. 
"I  have  the  greatest  mind  not  to  give  up  that  canvas.  I  should  be  within 
my  rights  if  1  destroyed  it." 

"I  have  grave  doubts  whether  you  could  do  it  legally,"  said  Andover. 

For  a  man  of  his  vaimted  wisdom  and  experience  it  was  a  sadly  inju- 
dicious thing  to  have  said. 

"You  think  so,"  said  the  redoubtable  Caroline.  "That  decides  me. 
That  man  must  be  taught  a  lesson.  Andover,  have  the  goodness  to  ring 
the  bell." 

Andover  showed  genuine  concern. 

"Surely,  Caroline,"  said  he,  "you  cannot  mean  that  you  are  going 
to  destroy  it." 

"That  is  my  intention." 

264  THE  FORUM 

''Oh,  but/'  said  Andover,  "it  would  be  nothing  short  of  a  crime. 
There  is  no  other  word  for  if 

"It  is  going  to  be  done/'  said  Caroline  Crewkeme. 

"But  the  young  fellow  has  put  many  hours  of  fine  work  into  that 
picture/'  said  Andover  with  great  seriousness,  "and  fine  thought  in  it 
too.    It  would  be  a  crime." 

"If  a  man  has  no  manners  he  must  be  taught  them/'  said  Caroline 

"The  kettle  is  invariably  the  severest  judge  of  the  pot,"  said  Andover 
in  a  whimsical  aside.    "Really,  Caroline,  you  began  it,"  said  he. 

"The  man  began  it  by  painting  my  niece's  portrait  without  obtaining 
my  permission.  Not  content  with  abusing  my  hospitality  he  must  show 
insolence  when  remonstrated  with." 

"Well,  you  know,  my  dear  Caroline/'  said  Andover,  "that  hand  of 
yours  is  uncommonly  heavy.  And  although  no  one  deplores  the  young 
fellow's  conduct  for  his  own  sake  more  deeply  than  I  do,  he  acted  pre- 
cisely as  his  profoundly  rash  and  hot-headed  father  would  have  done  in 
the  circumstances." 

"I  am  not  in  the  least  interested  in  such  a  person  or  in  his  father 
either/'  said  Caroline  Crewkeme.  "But  I  have  made  up  my  mind  that 
that  canvas  shall  be  destroyed." 



Andover's  gravity  was  of  a  kind  he  seldom  displayed. 

"Caroline/'  said  he  firmly,  "if  you  behaved  in  that  way  no  right- 
minded  person  could  possibly  forgive  you.  The  lad  is  very  poor  and 
his  history  is  a  sad  one.  He  is  the  son  of  Lascelles,  V.C.,  as  rash  yet 
generous-hearted  a  fellow  as  ever  lived.  Had  it  not  been  for  a  dishonest 
broker  the  yoimg  chap  would  be  a  man  of  wealth  and  position." 

"I  am  prepared  to  hear  nothing  further  upon  the  subject,"  said  Caro- 
line Crewkeme.  "I  have  made  up  my  mind.  Andover,  have  the  good- 
ness to  ring  the  bell." 

The  affair  must  have  had  a  tragic  termination  there  and  then  had 
not  the  God  who  watches  over  poor  painters — whatever  their  own  private 
fnd  personal  doubts  in  regard  to  that  Deity,  it  is  only  right  for  laymen 
like  ourselves  to  assume  that  there  is  one — seen  fit  to  enact  a  little  provi- 
dence of  His  own.  At  that  cracial  moment  there  came  to  Andover's  aid 
no  less  a  person  than  George  Betterton.    And  as  if  that  opportune  arrival 


was  not  in  itself  sufficient,  Providence  took  the  trouble  to  play  a  double 
coup.  Mr.  Marchbanks  made  the  announcement  almost  immediately 
afterward  that  luncheon  was  ready. 

While  Caroline  enlarged  upon  her  grievances  to  George  Betterton  and 
outlined  the  extreme  course  she  proposed  to  take  as  soon  as  luncheon  was 
over,  Andover  scribbled  hastily  in  pencil  on  the  back  of  a  card :  "Eemove 
picture  from  No.  —  Hill  Street  immediately  to  the  Acacias,  Hawthorn 
Road,  Balham.'' 

This  accomplished,  he  proceeded  to  take  Mr.  Collins  into  his  confi- 
dence. He  placed  the  card  together  with  a  sovereign  in  the  palm  of 
that  gentleman. 

"Go  down  at  once,"  said  he,  "to  the  people  at  the  Bond  Street  Gal- 
leries and  give  them  this  card.  They  are  to  remove  that  half  finished 
picture  in  the  blue  drawing-room  to  that  address.  By  the  time  luncheon 
is  over  it  must  be  out  of  the  house.    Is  that  clear  ?" 

'Terfectly  clear,  my  lord,"  said  Mr.  Collins,  who  among  his  many 
virtues  had  a  proper  tenderness  for  the  peerage. 

"See  that  this  is  done,  and  when  questions  are  asked  all  you  need 
know  upon  the  subject  is  that  a  couple  of  men  came  and  took  it  away. 
You  understand?" 

'Terfectly,  my  lord,"  said  Mr.  Collins. 

During  luncheon  Andover  was  seen  to  particular  advantage.  At  any 
time  it  called  for  very  little  effort  on  his  part  for  him  to  be  one  of  the 
most  agreeable  men  in  Tx)ndon.  To-day  he  excelled.  He  retailed  some 
of  the  newest  stories  and  a  quantity  of  the  freshest  gossip ;  he  was  really 
genial  to  George  Betterton  and  encouraged  him  to  enlarge  at  length  upon 
the  subject  of  the  Militia ;  and  to  his  hostess  he  gave  a  tip  for  the  Oaks, 
for  which  species  of  information  she  had  a  decided  weakness. 

It  was  but  seldom  among  his  intimates  that  George  was  permitted  to 
mount  his  hobby  horse.  As  for  Andover  he  was  the  last  man  in  the 
world  as  a  rule  to  consent  to  hold  the  head  of  that  extraordinary  quad- 
ruped while  George  established  himself  firmly  in  the  saddle.  But  on  this 
occasion  he  performed  that  operation  in  the  most  graceful  manner. 

"Excellent  speech  of  yours  in  the  House  the  other  evening,  my  dear 
fellow,"  said  he.  *!  wasn't  there  myself — Philosophical  Society's  annual 
meeting — ^but  you  were  very  carefully  reported  in  the  Times.  Quite  your 
best  vein,  if  I  may  say  so.  Very  shrewd,  very  searching,  sound  common 
sense.    You  thought  so,  Caroline,  did  you  not?" 

It  seems  incredible,  but  Caroline  Crewkerne  walked  straight  into  the 
trap.  With  all  her  ruthlessness  and  all  her  knowledge  of  mundane  affairs 
she  had  one  besetting  weakness.    She  attached  an  absurd  importance  to 

256  THE  FORUM 

any  form  of  politics.  It  was  her  Whiggism  doubtless.  She  would  en- 
courage the  most  consummate  bore,  for  upon  the  slightest  pretext  her 
vanity  would  lead  her  to  believe  that  her  fingers  were  really  in  the  pie, 
and  that  she  had  a  very  considerable  hand  in  the  destinies  of  the  coun- 

In  the  heyday  of  her  glory  it  used  to  be  asserted  freely  by  idle  persons 
that  if  the  country  was  not  actually  ruled  from  Hill  Street,  ministers  at 
least  were  made  and  marred  there,  and  that  of  that  quarter  governments 
went  in  fear  and  trembling.  And  it  is  by  no  means  improbable  that  Caro- 
line Crewkerne  came  to  believe  it.  It  is  surprising  what  vanity  will  do 
for  us. 

To-day  the  smouldering  embers  of  a  life-long  illusion,  if  the  figure 
is  permitted,  allowed  Caroline  Crewkerne  to  establish  George  Betterton 
quite  firmly  astride  his  hobby  horse.  Andover  counted  the  minutes  of  his 
exquisite  boredom.  George  was  always  heavy.  He  spoke  so  slowly  and 
impressively  that  he  could  deliver  a  platitude  in  a  longer  space  of  time 
than  any  man  living,  and  he  could  use  fewer  words  in  the  operation.  In- 
deed, upon  the  strength  of  that  gift  he  had  gained  a  reputation  for  in- 
cisive brevity. 

To  see  Caroline  Crewkerne  nodding  her  vain  old  head  and  wagging 
her  vain  old  ears  in  an  exaggerated  attitude  of  statesmanlike  attention 
was  a  positive  joy  to  Andover,  particularly  as  time  was  so  valuable.  The 
minutes  grew  tedious  in  their  passing,  all  the  same.  The  clock  chimed 
half  past  two  and  Miss  Perry  mentioned  the  circus. 

'Tjet  us  postpone  it  until  to-morrow,  my  dear  Miss  Goose,  if  you 
really  don't  mind,*'  said  Andover.  **The  conversation  is  so  absorbing. 
The  preserved  ginger  is  highly  delectable,  too.'* 

Miss  Perry  shared  the  latter  opinion. 

'TBenedictine  or  Maraschino,  my  lord?"  said  Mr.  Marchbanks. 

'TSoth,''  said  my  lord. 

Mr.  Marchbanks  dissembled  his  surprise  in  an  extremely  well-bred 
manner.  In  his  eyes,  however,  a  peer  of  the  realm  was  in  the  happy 
position  of  Caesar's  wife. 

It  must  not  be  assumed,  however,  that  Andover  indulged  in  both 
these  luxuries.  His  respect  for  the  internal  economy  forbade  that  course. 
But  observing  that  George  Betterton  selected  Maraschino  he  contrived 
to  smuggle  unseen  the  Benedictine  to  George's  side  of  the  table.  He  then 
addressed  his  mind  to  slumber. 

After  a  full  twenty  minutes  thus  blissfully  stolen  he  awoke  with  a 
little  start 

'^eg  pardon,  George,"  said  he.    'Did  I  understand  you  to  say  the 


Militia  had  gone  to  the  dooce  and  the  Country  must  be  reconstructed  or 
that  the  Country  had  gone  to  the  dooce  and  the  Militia  must  be  recon- 
structed r 

'*The  Country,  Andover/*  said  Caroline  Crewkeme  in  her  most  af- 
faire manner,  "certainly  the  Country/* 

'TVTiat  a  good  head  you  have,  Caroline,**  said  Andover,  giving  ex- 
pression to  a  somnolent  admiration.  'Take  after  your  father.  Sorry  to 
interrupt  you,  Qeorge.  Most  able  discourse.  By  ihe  way,  Caroline,  you 
never  give  one  the  treat  of  the  famous  old  brandy  these  days.  Not  for 
myself.  I  never  touch  brandy;  but  I  was  thinking  of  George.  It  is 
known  to  be  excellent  for  any  kind  of  disquisition.** 

George  Betterton,  duly  fortified  with  a  little  of  the  famous  old  brandy 
and  with  a  yet  further  supply  of  Benedictine,  which  Andover  caused  to 
be  conveyed  to  him,  proceeded  on  his  victorious  way. 

"Country  gone  to  the  dogs — ^yes,**  said  Andover.  'Tiilitia  gone  to  the 
dooce — quite  so.  Circus  to-morrow.  Miss  Goose.  But  Gobo  quite  edu- 
cational too.** 

Andover  addressed  himself  again  to  slumber  with  a  peaceful,  re- 
signed, yet  vastly  contented  air. 

It  was  five  minutes  past  three  before  Caroline  Crewkeme  quitted  the 
table.  In  spite  of  her  fund  of  natural  shrewdness  she  could  not  help  feel- 
ing— so  easy  it  is  for  the  wisest  people  to  deceive  themselves  in  some 
things — ^that  she  had  sat  at  the  feet  o'f  a  political  Gamaliel  who  played 
ducks  and  drakes  with  the  War  Office.  As  for  George  Betterton,  having 
been  endured  with  a  patience  that  was  not  always  extended  to  him,  with- 
out actually  giving  himself  airs,  he  felt  that  upon  the  subject  of  the 
Militia  he  really  was  no  end  of  a  fellow.  Andover,  who  had  enjoyed  an 
additional  thirty-five  minutes  of  undisturbed  repose,  gave  him  clearly  to 
understand  that  he  concurred  in  that  opinion. 

Back  in  the  drawing-room  Caroline  Crewkeme  reaflBrmed  her  inten- 
tion of  destroying  the  half -finished  portrait  of  Miss  Perry. 

"An  unpardonable  piece  of  presumption  in  the  first  place,**  said  she. 
"And  in  the  second  the  man  was  positively  insolent.** 

Andover  had  already  looked  for  the  canvas,  and  with  a  whimsical 
little  sigh  of  satisfaction  had  looked  in  vain.  It  would  seem  that  the 
myrmidons  of  the  Bond  Street  (Jalleries  had  done  their  work. 

"Do  be  more  lenient,  my  dear  Caroline/*  said  Andover  persuasively. 
'The  fellow  is  young  and  his  lot  is  hard.  Pray  don*t  take  the  bread  out 
of  the  mouth  of  a  rising  genius  who  has  to  support  his  mother.  George, 
my  dear  fellow,  throw  the  weight  of  your  great  influence  into  the  scale. 
Caroline  must  be  more  humane.    Hising  young  man — ^highly  susceptible 

258  THE  FORUM 

— wholly  capiiTated  hj  our  distxacting  His  Goose.  Any  jonng  fsHaw 
with  any  tort  of  instinct  for  Xatnie  at  her  dioicest  would  hare  dme  the 

Andorer  concluded  upon  an  exclamation  from  the  pedonbtabk  Caro- 

^^Whj/*  «he  cried^  *^be  pictore  has  been  taken  away  f 

Mr.  Karchbanka  waa  gmnmoned. 

^wo  men  from  Feabodj'g  fetched  it  an  honr  ago^  my  lady^"  Mr. 
Marchbanks  explained. 

'Without  my  permisgion,"  stormed  his  mistress. 

^  had  no  instroctions^  my  lady,"  said  Mr.  Mardibanks.  ^  was  un- 
der the  impression  that  it  was  the  property  of  the  young  painting  gentle- 

''You  were  under  the  impression  T 

''Caroline,''  said  Andover  gravely,  "if  you  hare  not  been  properly 
scored  off,  it  looks  uncommonly  like  it.  Young  fellow  evidently  didn't 
allow  the  grass  to  grow  under  his  feet.  He  said  he  would  send  for  it 
to-morrow,  but  he  seems  to  have  changed  his  mind«  But  in  my  humble 
judgment,  if  you  must  blame  anybody  you  wiD  do  well  to  blame  George. 
If  he  hadn't  been  so  devilish  interesting  on  the  subject  of  the  Militia  it 
would  never  have  happened." 



Little  recked  Jim  Lascelles  of  the  train  of  circumstances  which  en- 
abled his  precious  half-finished  work  to  return  to  its  maker.  When  it 
arrived  at  his  hermitage  at  Balham  that  afternoon  he  merely  saw  in  its 
premature  return  an  additional  affront.  He  took  it  for  granted  that  the 
old  woman  of  Hill  Street  had  ordered  it  out  of  the  house. 

"An  absolutely  inconceivable  old  cat,'*  Jim  assured  his  mother  with 
groat  truculence. 

"I  am  afraid  so,  laddie,"  said  his  toother  sagely.  'Tower  is  so  bad 
for  poor  Female  Us." 

"She  has  ruined  me,"  said  Jim  miserably.  "She  and  that  infernal 
temper  of  mine." 

"Temper  is  feminine  too,  laddie,"  said  Jim's  mother  profoundly. 
"She  invariably  plays  old  Harry  when  she  gets  hold  of  the  reins." 

Perhaps  it  ought  to  be  stated  that  Jim's  mother  had  recently  tried  to 
cko  out  her  slender  purse  by  writing  a  novel.    At  least  that  is  the  only 


explanation  there  is  to  offer  of  how  she  came  to  be  so  wise.    The  writing 
of  novels  is  very  good  for  the  mind,  as  all  the  world  knows. 

Jim  was  woefully  gloomy  for  many  days.  He  felt  that  by  his  un- 
lucky outburst  he  had  irretrievably  ruined  his  prospects.  And  they  were 
getting  bright  so  suddenly  that  they  had  almost  seemed  to  dazzle  him. 
Not  only  had  he  forfeited  the  hundred  pounds  which  Lord  Andover  had 
promised  him  for  a  faithful  copy  of  the  Gainsborough,  but  doubtless 
after  his  unhappy  exhibition  of  temper  Lord  KendaFs  daughter  Priscilla 
would  choose  to  be  painted  by  somebody  else. 

This,  however,  was  not  the  worst.  The  Goose  Girl  had  passed  clean 
out  of  his  ken.  Henceforward  he  would  be  debarred  the  sight  of  the 
*^runcible  hat,''  the  Gainsborough  frock,  and  the  full-fledged  cream-bun 
appearance.  She  had  driven  the  unfortunate  young  fellow  so  nearly  to 
distraction  that  while  he  found  it  impossible  to  expel  her*  from  his 
thoughts,  he  could  not  summon  the  resolution  to  unlock  the  door  of  the 
studio  he  had  caused  to  be  set  up  in  the  small  Balham  back  garden.  It 
was  nothing  less  than  an  affliction  to  gaze  upon  the  half-finished  canvas, 
which  now  could  never  be  completed. 

By  nature  Jim  Lascelles  was  a  bright  and  cheery  soul.  But  the  fact 
that  he  had  destroyed  his  prospects  **ju8t  as  things  were  coming  his  way'* 
by  a  single  unbridled  act,  made  him  extremely  unhappy.  It  needed  all 
Mrs.  Lascelles's  gay  courage  and  invincible  optimism  to  keep  Jim  steady 
during  these  days  of  trial. 

*Tinish  her  out  of  your  head,  laddie,*'  said  she,  '*then  send  her  away 
and  have  done  with  her." 

'^Nay,"  said  Jim.  'T  must  either  put  all  I  know  into  that  little  work 
or  stick  a  knife  through  the  canvas." 

Jim  brooded  dreadfully  upon  the  subject.  Black  rings  came  under 
his  eyes,  he  smoked  too  much  and  ate  too  little. 

"I  must  and  I  will  see  her,"  said  Jim. 

"That  is  the  true  spirit,  my  son,"  said  his  mother  cheerfully. 

It  is  not  quite  clear  whether  she  ought  openly  to  have  expressed  her 
approval.  It  was  very  necessary,  all  the  same,  to  rouse  the  unhappy  Jim 
from  the  lethargy  that  was  making  his  life  unbearable.  At  all  events  he 
seemed  to  derive  a  certain  inward  power  from  the  mere  resolution. 

The  next  morning  Jim  made  his  way  to  Hyde  Park.  It  was  now 
June  and  it  was  looking  its  best  with  the  trees,  the  rhododendrons  and  the 
ladies  in  full  bloom.  For  some  time  he  stood  by  the  railings  with  a  kind 
of  indefinite  hope  that  he  would  be  rewarded  for  his  pilgrimage.  Then 
he  began  to  walk  slowly  in  the  direction  of  Knightsbridge ;  and  con- 
fronted by  so  much  fine  plumage  he  began  to  wish  ruefully  that  his  blue 

260  THE  FORUM 

suit  was  not  so  shabby  and  that  his  straw  hat  was  not  in  its  second 

He  was  still  hopeful,  however.  He  took  a  careful  survey  of  the  riders. 
Somewhat  oddly  his  attention  was  attracted  to  a  heavy  red-faced  rather 
stupid-looking  man  who  was  pounding  along  on  a  gray  horse.  His  ap- 
pearance was  perfectly  familiar  to  Jim  Lascelles,  yet  for  the  moment  he 
could  not  remember  where  and  when  he  had  seen  him. 

It  was  with  an  odd  mingling  of  satisfaction  and  disgust  that  he  was 
able  to  recall  the  heavy  red-faced  man's  identity.  He  stopped  and  turned 
to  follow  him  in  his  progress.  Yes,  it  Was  he  undoubtedly.  And  there 
at  the  comer  by  Apsley  House  was  a  chestnut  horse,  tall,  upstanding, 
proudly  magnificent,  surmounted  by  a  royal  creature  crowned  with  the 
light  of  the  morning.  At  the  respectful  distance  of  thirty  paces  was  Mr. 
Collins,  Beated  as  upright  as  his  own  cockade  upon  a  more  modest 
charger.  Even  he,  a  man  of  austere  taste  and  exclusive  instinct,  did  not 
attempt  to  conceal  an  air  of  legitimate  pride  in  his  company.  Mr.  Col- 
lins had  seen  nothing  that  mommg,  nor  many  mornings  previously,  that 
could  in  any  wise  compare  with  the  wonderful  Miss  Perry. 

Doubtless  it  is  hardly  right  to  say  that  Jim  Lascelles^s  eyes  were  en- 
vious when  they  followed  the  man  with  the  red  face  and  marked  his 
paternal  greeting  of  the  Goose  Girl.  It  is  hardly  fair,  for  envy  is  a 
vulgar- passion,  and  Jim  was  too  good  a  fellow  ever  to  be  really  vulgar 
in  anything.  All  the  same  it  must  be  confessed  that  he  swore  to  him- 
self softly.  He  then  behaved  in  a  very  practical  and  mundane  manner. 
He  took  out  his  watch,  one  of  those  admirable  American  five-shilling 
watches  which  are  guaranteed  to  keep  correct  time  for  a  very  long  period. 

*Three  minutes  past  eleven,*^  said  Jim.     *'Oho,  my  merry  man!" 

Precisely  what  Jim  meant  by  that  mystic  exclamation  it  is  difficult 
to  know;  but  anyhow  it  seemed  to  please  him.  He  then  observed  that 
the  little  cavalcade  had  wheeled  round  the  comer,  and  had  started  to 
come  down  slowly  by  the  railings  upon  the  left 

Jim  stood  to  await  it  with  a  beating  heart.  It  was  a  most  injudicious 
thing  to  do,  but  he  was  in  a  desperate  and  defiant  humor. 

"Five  to  one  she  cuts  you,'^  Jim  muttered.  "Two  to  one  she  cuts 
you  dead.    They  are  all  alike  when  they  mount  the  high  horse.'* 

As  Jim  Lascelles  stood  to  await  the  approach  of  the  cavalcade  he 
no  longer  thought  ruefully  of  his  cheap  straw  hat  and  his  shabby  blue 
suit.  They  had  become  dear  to  him  as  the  badge  of  his  impending  mar- 

Gobo  hugged  the  railings.  He  was  so  close  to  Jim  that  he  nearly 
touched  him  with  his  spurs — dummy  spurs  as  Jim  noted.    Miss  Perry 


was  explaining  that  all  the  girls  had  white  frocks  at  Buckingham  Pal- 
ace, and  how  she  wished  that  MnfiBn  had  been  there,  as  a  white  frock 
always  suited  her,  although  she  was  inclined  to  tear  it,  when  Miss 
Featherbrain  was  met  by  the  steady  and  unflinching  gaze  of  Jim  Las- 
celles.  Instantly  her  hand  went  up,  not  one  of  darned  cotton,  but  a 
yellow,  gauntletted  aflfair  that  matched  her  hair,  in  quite  the  regulation 
Widdiford  manner. 

"Why— why,"  she  cried,  "it's  Jim !  Hallo,  Jim." 
In  the  ears  of  Jim  Lascelles  the  incomparably  foolish  drawl  had  never 
sounded  so  absurd  and  so  delicious.  It  was  plainly  the  intention  of 
Miss  Perry  to  hold  animated  conversation  with  the  undeniably  handsome 
youth  who  returned  her  greeting.  But  the  intervention  of  the  highest 
branch  of  the  peerage,  as  solemn  as  the  British  Constitution  and  as  solid, 
too,  between  her  and  the  railings;  and  the  fact  that  there  was  a  reso- 
lutely oncoming  rearguard  in  the  person  of  the  scandalized  Mr.  Collins, 
who  in  his  own  mind  was  tolerably  sure  that  the  presumptuous  young 
man  by  the  railings  had  no  connection  with  the  peerage  whatever,  suf- 
ficed to  keep  Miss  Perry  in  the  straight  path. 

Therefore,  Jim  Lascelles  had  to  be  content  with  one  of  the  old  Wid- 
diford smiles,  which,  nevertheless,  was  enchanting,  and  a  parting  wave 
of  the  yellow  gauntlet  which  was  the  perfection  of  friendliness,  comrade- 
ship and  natural  simplicity.  He  stood  to  watch  the  cavalcade  pass 
slowly  down  the  ride,  the  magnificent  chestnut  and  its  rider  the  observed 
of  all  observers,  for  both  were  superb  and  profoundly  simple  works  of 
nature.  The  red-faced  and  stolid  personage  on  the  gray,  a  more  sophis- 
ticated pair,  were  yet  well  in  the  picture  also,  for  if  less  resplendent 
they,  too,  in  their  way  were  imposing. 

Jim's  reverie  was  interrupted  by  a  voice  at  his  elbow. 
"There  they  go,"  it  satd,  "the  most  iH-assorted  pair  in  England." 
With  a  start  of  surprise  Jim  turned  to  find  an  immaculate  beside 
him.    Andover  was  wearing  a  light  gray  frock  coat  with  an  exaggerated 
air  of  fashion. 

"Crabbed  age  and  youth,"  said  Jim,  yet  quite  without  bitterness.  He 
was  still  glowing  with  pleasure  at  his  frank  and  friendly  recognition. 

"A  pitiful  sight,"  said  Andover.    "A  man  of  his  age  I    How  odd  it 
is  that  some  men  are  born  without  a  sense  of  the  incongruous." 
^TTes,"  said  Jim. 

"Gal  looks  well  outside  a  horse.  Very  well,  indeed.  Pity  that  old 
ruffian  should  ruin  so  fair  a  picture." 

Andover  seemed  prepared  to  criticize  his  rival's  style  of  horsemanship. 
Eeluctantly,  however,  he  forbore  to  do  so.    For  George  had  been  drill^ 

2S2  '^^^^  FOBUM 

very  severdy  in  his  youth;  and  in  spite  of  his  years  and  his  weight  he 
was  able  to  make  a  creditable  appearance  in  the  saddle. 

*T)o  yon  know/'  said  Jim,  '1  almost  regret  that  I  did  not  attempt 
an  equestrian  portrait/' 

Andover's  brows  went  up. 

**Upon  my  word,  Lascelles,*'  said  he,  "you  are  an  uncommonly  bold 
fellow  to  mention  the  word  portrait.'' 

"I  agree  with  you,"  said  Jim. 

He  laughed  rather  bitterly.    Andover  aflfected  a  gravely  paternal  air. 

*Tjascelles,"  said  he,  'T[  think  the  fact  that  at  school  your  father  im- 
bued me  with  the  elements  of  wisdom  gives  some  sort  of  sanction  to  a 
little  plain  speaking  on  my  part." 

"Go  on,"  said  Jim,  with  gloomy  resignation.    "Rub  it  in." 

"I  think,  Lascelles,"  said  Andover,  with  a  fine  assumption  of  th« 
air  of  a  'Tiead  beak,"  ''your  conduct  merits  censure  in  the  highest 

"It  has  received  it,"  said  Jim.  "I  have  been  kicking  myself  ever 
since  for  being  such  a  hot-headed  fool." 

"One  is  almost  afraid,"  said  Andover  ruefully,  "that  the  indiscretion 
you  committed  is  irreparable.  Beally,  Lascelles,  making  due  allowance 
for  the  fact  that  your  father  was  one  of  the  most  rash  and  hasty  men 
I  ever  encountered,  and  allowiug  further  for  the  fact  that  my  old  friend 
has  a  deplorable  absence  of,  shall  we  say,  finesse,  your  behavior  amounted 
neither  more  nor  less  than  to  suicide." 

"I  don't  regret  what  I  did,"  said  Jim,  "as  far  as  that  old  Gorgon  of 
a  woman  is  concerned.  I  am  afraid  I  should  behave  in  just  the  same 
way  again  if  I  were  placed  in  a  similar  position.  But  of  course  it  is  a 
very  serious  thing  for  me.  As  for  the  portrait  I  intend  by  hook  or  by 
crook  to  finish  it." 

"Well,  Lascelles,"  said  Andover,  giving  the  young  fellow  a  kindly 
touch  on  the  arm  in  parting,  "do  what  you  can;  and  when  the  work 
is  complete  you  must  let  me  see  it." 

It  was  a  new  Jim  Lascelles  who  returned  to  Balham  by  the  twelve- 
thiriy  from  Victoria  and  took  luncheon  with  his  mother.  He  called  at 
the  green  grocer's  just  as  you  get  out  of  the  station,  and  arrived  at 
the  Acacias  with  a  number  of  paper  bags  tucked  under  each  arm.  He 
hummed  the  favorite  air  in  the  very  latest  musical  comedy,  while  he 
proceeded  to  make  a  salad  whose  mysteries  he  had  acquired  in  Paris. 
He  had  been  initiated  into  them  by  Monsieur  Bonnat,  the  famous  chef 
of  the  Hotel  Brinvilliers.  And  it  so  happened  that  Jim's  mother,  who 
spoiled  him  completely,  had   purchased   a  lobster,  which  she  really 


couldn't  afford,  such  was  the  current  price  of  that  delicacy  and  the 
present  state  of  her  finances,  to  cheer  Jim  up  a  bit. 

"My  dear,"  said  Jim,  "let  us  have  the  last  bottle  of  the  Johannis- 

Miranda,  the  demure  little  maid  of  all  work,  was  ordered  rather 
magnificently  to  procure  the  same. 

"Piiy  His,  'tis  the  last,"  said  Jim,  who  proceeded  to  toast  his  mother. 
"May  those  precious  publishers,"  said  he,  **leam  truly  to  appreciate  a 
very  remarkable  literary  genius,  my  dear." 

"I  am  afraid  they  do,  dear  boy,"  said  she.    'That  is  the  trouble." 

"It  is  a  rattling  good  story,  anyhow,"  said  Jim  stoutly. 

"It  certainly  ends  as  every  self-respecting  and  well-conducted  story 
ought    But  this  old  addle  pate  hasn't  a  spark  of  literary  genius  in  it." 

"Oh,  hasn't  it !"  said  Jim,  bringing  his  fist  upon  the  table.  "George 
Sand  is  a  fool  to  you,  my  dear." 

'T)ear  fellow,"  said  Jim's  mother  with  a  smile  of  pleasure.  "At 
any  rate,  I  am  enough  of  a  genius  to  like  appreciation.  But  with  you, 
laddie,  it  is  different.  You  are  the  real  right  thing,  as  dear  Henry 
James  would  say." 

"Oh,  am  I  ?"  said  Jim.    "Well,  here's  to  the  Heal,  Bight  Thing,  which- 
^  ever  of  us  has  it.    I  know  which  side  of  the  table  it  is  if  you  don't." 

"The  Bealest,  Bightest  Thing  is  outside  in  the  garden  waiting  for 
the  hand  of  the  master  to  complete  her,"  said  Mrs.  Lascelles. 

"Ye  gods,  the  hand  of  the  master  I"  said  Jim.  "You  pile  it  on 
'a  leetle  beet  tick,'  as  Monsieur  Gillet  would  say  to  you.  But  shall 
I  tell  you  a  secret?    I  saw  the  Goose  Girl  this  morning." 

"Of  course  you  did,  dear  boy." 

*^ow  did  you  guess  ?" 

"The  step  on  the  gravel  told  me." 

"You  are  wonderful,  you  know,"  said  Jim.  "Fancy  your  finding  it 
out  like  that  when  I  tried  hard  to  walk  slowly." 

"That  vain,  wicked,  foolish  and  depraved  Goose,"  said  Jim's  mother. 
"You  met  her  in  Hyde  Park  this  morning  walking  with  her  Duke,  and 
she  gave  you  a  smile,  and  if  she  was  more  than  usually  foolish  she  said, 
'Why,  it's  Jim!'" 

"She  was  en  cheval.    But  you  are  wonderful,  you  know,"  said  Jim. 

"Biding  was  she?"  said  Jim's  mother.  "And  pray  how  did  the  great 
overgrown  creature  look  outside  a  horse?" 

"I  could  never  have  believed  it,"  said  Jim.  "She  was  mounted  on 
a  glorious  chestnut,  a  great  mountain  of  a  beast,  a  noble  stepper,  and 
in  her  smart  new  habit  and  in  an  extraordinarily  fashionable  topper — 

264  THE  FORUM 

think  on  it,  my  dear,  the  Goose  Girl  in  a  topper ! — she  was  a  picture  for 
the  gods/* 

"One  can  readily  believe,"  said  Jim's  mother,  "that  the  creature 
would  set  high  Olympus  in  a  roar/* 

"She  was  to  the  manner  born,**  said  Jim.  "She  might  have  learned 
the  art  of  equitation  in  Vhauie  ecole  instead  of  in  the  home  paddock  at 
Widdif ord  on  that  screw  of  the  dear  old  governor's.** 

"Oh  no,  dear  boy,**  said  Jim*s  mother  with  decision,  "poor  dear 
Melanchthon  was  anything  but  a  screw.  He  was  by  Martin  Luther  out 
of  Moll  Cutpurse.    He  won  the  point  to  point  on  three  occasions.** 

"I  humbly  beg  Melanchthon*s  pardon,**  said  Jim.  "That  explains 
why  the  Goose  Girl  comes  to  be  so  proficient.  She  certainly  looked  this 
morning  as  if  she  had  never  sat  anything  less  than  the  blood  of  Carbine.** 

"I  think  the  secret  of  the  whole  matter,  my  son,**  said  Jim*s  mother 
profoundly,  "is  that  the  Female  Us  is  so  marvellously  adaptable.  If  she 
is  really  smartly  turned  out  on  a  fine  morning  in  June  with  a  real 
live  duke  on  the  off  side  of  her  and  all  London  gazing  at  her,  if  she 
had  never  learned  to  sit  anything  else  than  a  donkey  she  would  still 
contrive  to  look  as  though  she  had  won  the  whole  gymkhana.  It  is  just 
that  quality  that  makes  the  Female  lis  so  wonderful.  It  is  just  that 
that  maketh  Puss  so  soon  get  too  big  for  her  dancing  slippers.** 

"Well,  you  wise  woman,**  said  Jim,  "the  Goose  Girl  would  have 
taken  all  the  prizes  this  morning.    And  she  didn't  even  cut  me.** 

"Cut  you,  laddie  !**  exclaimed  Jim*s  mother.  "Gott  in  himmel !  that 
Gkx>se  cut  you  indeed!** 

"There  are  not  many  Goose  Girls  that  wouldn't  have  done  it,"  said 
Jim,  "in  the  circumstances.  But  she  is  True  Blue.  And  I  am  going 
to  finish  her  portrait.    And  I  am  going  to  make  her  permanently  famous.** 

Jim's  mother  tilted  the  last  of  the  Johannisberg  into  his  glass. 

"Go  in  and  win,  dear  boy,"  said  she.  'TTou  have  genius.  Lavish 
it  upon  her.  Earn  fame  and  fortune,  and  buy  back  the  Bed  House  at 

"And  in  the  meantime,"  said  Jim,  "she  will  have  married  that  old 
fossil  and  borne  him  three  children." 

"She  will  not,  dear  boy,"  said  the  voice  of  the  temptress,  "if  you 
make  her  promise  not  to." 

"Oh,  that  wouldn't  be  cricket,"  said  Jim,  "with  her  people  so  miser- 
ably poor  and  James  Lascelles  by  no  means  affluent;  and  the  old  fossil 
with  a  house  in  Piccadilly,  and  another  in  Notts,  and  another  in  Fife- 
shire,  and  a  yacht  in  the  Solent,  and  a  box  at  the  opera,  and  a  mauso- 
leum at  Kensal  Green.    No,  old  lady,  I'm  afraid  it  wouldn't  be  cricket." 


Jim*s  mother  exposed  herself  to  the  censure  of  all  self-respecting 

"It  would  be  far  less  like  cricket/*  said  she,  "for  that  perfect  dear  of  a 
Goose  to  have  her  youth,  her  beauty  and  her  gaiety  purchased  by  a 
worldly  old  ruflBan  old  enough  to  be  her  grandfather.  Come,  sir,  she 
awaits  her  very  parfit  gentil  knight/' 

But  Jim  shook  his  head  solemnly. 

'Tfo,  old  lady,''  said  he,  "I  am  afraid  it  wouldn't  be  playing  the 

All  the  same,  immediately  luncheon  was  over  Jim  took  the  key  of 
his  studio  off  the  sitting-room  chimney  piece,  and  went  forth  to  the  mis- 
shapen wooden  erection  in  the  small  Balham  back  garden.  The  key 
turned  in  the  lock  stif9y.  It  was  nearly  three  weeks  since  it  had  last 
been  in  it.  For  several  hours  he  worked  joyfully,  touching  and  retouch- 
ing the  picture  and  improvising  small  details  out  of  his  head.  And  all 
the  time  the  Goose  Girl  smiled  upon  him  in  the  old  Widdiford  manner. 
Her  hair  had  never  looked  so  yellow  and  her  eyes  had  never  looked  so 



The  next  morning,  a  little  before  eleven,  the  wonderful  Miss  Perry, 
accompanied  by  the  admirable  Mr.  Collins,  was  approaching  Apsley 
House  when  the  figure  of  a  solitary  horseman  was  to  be  seen.  It  had 
a  combination  of  unexpectedness  and  familiarity  which  fixed  Miss 
Perry's  attention.  She  gave  a  little  exclamation.  The  horseman  was 
unmistakably  Jim  Lascelles. 

Jim  received  a  most  affectionate  greeting. 

'TTou  are  just  in  time,"  said  he.  "It  is  a  near  thing.  Gobo  is  yon- 
der in  the  offing.    I  was  afraid  he  would  get  here  before  you." 

Miss  Perry  was  delighted  but  perplexed  by  a  suggestion  that  Jim 
put  forward.  It  was  that  they  shoiild  go  down  the  left  while  Gobo  rode 
up  on  the  right. 

^T3ut  I  promised  Gobo,"  she  said. 

'Tiook  here.  Goose  Girl,"  said  Jim  with  tremendous  resolution,  "do 
you  suppose  I  have  invested  the  last  half  sovereign  I  have  in  the  world 
on  the  worst  hack  in  London  to  be  cut  out  by  that  old  duffer?  Come 
on  round,  you  Goose,  before  he  gets  up." 

Really  Miss  Perry  is  not  to  be  blamed.  Jim  Lascelles  was  resolu- 
tion incarnate  once  he  had  made  up  his  mind.    Jim's  horse,  a  nonde- 

2gg  THE  FORUM 

script  who  does  not  merit  serious  notice,  walked  a  few  paces  briskly,  the 
chestnut  followed  its  example,  as  chestnuts  will,  and  the  next  thing  was 
Jim's  horse  broke  into  a  canter.  The  chestnut  did  the  same.  Of  course 
it  was  Miss  Ferry's  business  to  see  that  the  chestnut  did  nothing  of  the 
sori;.  But  it  has  to  be  recorded  that  she  failed  in  her  obvious  duty.  And 
then  so  swift  is  the  road  to  destruction,  in  less  time  than  it  takes  to  in- 
form the  incredulous  reader,  the  chestnut  and  the  nondescript  began 
literally  to  fly  down  Eotten  Bow. 

It  was  a  golden  morning  of  glorious  June,  and  of  course  things  con- 
stantly happen  at  that  vernal  season.  But  as  the  four  pairs  of  irresponsi- 
ble hoofs  came  thundering  by,  flinging  up  the  tan  in  all  directions  and 
nearly  knocking  over  a  policeman,  equestrians  of  both  sexes  and  pedes- 
trians too  stared  in  polite  amazement  and  very  decided  disapproval. 
If  not  absolutely  contrary  to  the  Park  regulations  it  was  certainly  very 
wrong  behavior. 

There  is  every  reason  to  believe  that  the  opinion  of  that  high  au- 
thority, Mr.  Collins,  was  even  more  uncompromising.  Not  for  an  instant 
did  he  attempt  to  cope  with  the  pace  that  had  been  set.  He  was  content 
sadly  to  watch  his  charge  get  farther  and  farther  away.  He  then  turned 
to  look  back  at  the  man  with  the  red  face  who  had  just  arrived  at  the 

That  elevated  personage^  who  could  not  see  at  all  well  without  his 
spectacles,  halted  at  the  turn  and  looked  in  vain  for  the  wonderful 
Miss  Perry.  His  friend  Andover,  who  had  entered  the  gatee  just  in 
time  to  be  au  caurant  with  all  that  had  happened,  accosted  him  cheer- 

"Doctor's  orders,  (Jeorge?" 

**Ye-€-s,"  said  George  rather  gruffly. 

^T.  warned  you  years  ago,  my  dear  fellow,"  said  his  friend  sympa- 
thetically, ''that  any  man  who  drinks  port  wine  in  the  middle  of  the 
day  as  a  regular  thing  can  count  later  in  life  on  the  crown  of  the 

George  looked  rather  cross.  He  peered  to  the  right  and  he  peered 
to  the  left.  The  ever-receding  pair  were  by  now  undecipherable  to 
stronger  eyes  than  those  of  George  Betterton. 

"Seen  a  gal  about?"  he  inquired  rather  irritably.  There  never  was 
a  duke  since  the  creation  of  the  order  who  could  endure  to  be  kept  waiting. 

"I've  seen  several,"  said  his  friend  with  an  air  of  preternatural  inno- 

"I  mean  that  gal  of  Caroline  Crewkerne's,"  said  George. 

"I  was  not  aware  that  she  had  one." 


'*Tall,  bouncing  gal/*  said  George.    "Ginger  hair/' 

"Ginger  hair/'  said  his  friend.  "Tall,  bouncing  girl.  Do  you  mean 
my  ward.  Miss  Perry?'' 

'Tottf  ward/'  said  George.    *^What  d'ye  mean,  Andover?" 

"Caroline  Crewkeme  seems  to  think/'  said  Andover  coolly,  "that  I 
shall  serve  the  best  interests  of  a  lonely  and  unprotected  and  extraordi- 
narily prepossessing  girlhood  if  I  act  as  it  were  in  loco  parentis  during 
Miss  Perry's  sojourn  in  the  vast  metropolis." 

George  began  to  gobble  furiously.  It  was  a  sign,  however,  that  his 
mind  was  working.  That  heavy  and  rusiy  mechanism  was  very  diffi- 
cidt  to  set  in  motion. 

"If  it  comes  to  that,"  said  he,  '?  should  say  I  am  quite  as  capable 
of  looking  after  the  gal  as  you  are." 

"A  matter  of  opinion,  George,  I  assure  you,"  said  Andover  with 
genial  candor. 

"What  d'ye  mean?"  said  George. 

"For  one  thing  I  am  rather  older  than  you,"  said  his  friend,  "and 
therefore  in  Caroline's  opinion  I  am  better  fitted  to  occupy  the  paternal 

"Are  you  though?"  said  George  stubbornly. 

"I  am  sixty-five,  you  know,"  said  his  friend  with  an  air  of  modest 
pride.  "The  ideal  age,  if  I  may  say  so,  for  wisdom,  experience  and 
knowledge  of  the  world  to  coalesce  in  the  service  of  innocence,  beauty 
and  extreme  youth.  At  least  I  know  that  is  Caroline  Crewkeme's  opin- 

"(Join'  to  marry  the  gal,  are  you?"  said  George  bluntly. 

Some  men  are  very  blunt  by  nature. 

"The  exigencies  of  the  situation  may  render  that  course  expedient," 
said  Andover  rather  forensically.  "But  in  any  case,  my  dear  George, 
speaking  with  the  frankness  to  which  I  feel  that  my  advantage  in  years 
entitles  me,  I  am  inclined  to  doubt  the  seemliness  of  the  open  pursuit  by 
a  man  of  nine  and  fifty  of  a  wayside  flower." 

''What  d'ye  mean,  Andover?"  said  George  with  a  more  furious  gobble 
than  any  he  had  yet  achieved. 

"What  I  really  mean,  my  dear  fellow,"  said  his  friend,  "is  that  you 
can  no  longer  indulge  in  the  pleasures  of  the  chase  without  your  spec- 
tacles. Had  you  been  furnished  with  those  highly  useful  if  not  specially 
ornamental  adjuncts  to  the  human  countenance,  you  would  have  been 
able  to  observe  that  the  wonderful  Miss  Perry — ^whose  hair,  by  the  way, 
is  yellow — ^was  spirited  away  exactly  ninety  seconds  before  you  arrived 
on  the  scene." 

2gg  THE  FORUM 

''Who  took  her?'*  said  George,  who  by  now  had  grown  purple  with 
suppressed  energy. 

"A  young  fellow  took  her,"  said  Andover.  "A  smart,  dashing,  well 
set  up  young  fellow  took  her,  my  dear  George.  He  simply  came  up, 
tossed  her  the  handkerchief,  and  away  they  set  off,  hell  for  leather.  By 
now  they  are  at  the  Albert  Memorial." 

No  sooner  was  this  information  conveyed  to  him  than  George  Better- 
ton  did  a  vain  and  foolish  thing.  Without  bestowing  another  word  upon 
Andover  he  set  off  in  pursuit.  It  was  supremely  ridiculous  tiiat 
he  should  have  behaved  in  any  such  fashion.  But  it  is  surprising  how 
soon  the  most  stalwart  among  us  loses  his  poise;  how  soon  the  most  care- 
ful performer  topples  off  the  tight  rope  of  perfect  discretion  and  sanity. 
The  spectacle  of  George  pursuing  the  runaways  with  a  haste  that  was 
almost  as  unseemly  as  their  own  was  certainly  romantic.  And  at  the 
same  time  it  provided  infinitely  pleasant  food  for  the  detached  observer 
who  was  responsible  for  George^s  behavior. 

Andover  stood  to  watch  and  to  laugh  sardonically.  The  marionette 
had  begun  to  answer  to  the  strings  in  delightful  fashion.  He  promised 
to  excel  all  anticipation. 

{To  he  continued) 


[PABIS   speaks] 

'Twas  such  a  day  as  Uf  ts  its  sunny  head 
Not  half  a  score  of  times  'twixt  birth  and  death; 
One  of  those  days  when,  seeming  to  relent. 
The  gods  unroll  in  golden  characters 
Writ  large  across  the  halting  imiverse 
The  riddle  of  this  life — ^the  missing  word 
Leaps  almost  to  the  lip — ^then,  like  a  stone, 
Palls  back  upon  the  bafi9ed  heart  again; 
Even  such  a  day  as  this,  now  hardly  dead. 
That  brought  remembrance  of  cool  Ida's  grove 
Where  I  made  choice,  and  linked  consequence 
Stretched  on  therefrom  to  chain  the  foolish  world. 


Deep  mazed/I  paused^  slow  poising  in  my  hand 
The  apple,  and  in  shaken  silence  strove 
To  hold  true  balance  of  their  promises. 
Hera,  the  mother-look  deep  in  her  eyes 
And  shyly  wistful  shoulder  that  invites 
To  its  faint  hollow  sweet  the  weary  head, 
Gave  pledge  of  lifelong  happiness  and  peace: 
Bright  Pallas  in  her  stark,  cold  beauty  leaned 
To  tempt  with  honors  large,  while  her  gray  eye 
Lit  with  a  spark  of  promise  that  forespeUed 
A  hope  of  fire  behind  her  blue-veined  bust 
To  warm  its  aureoled  peaks. 

And  then  She  came — 
The  Paphian  One,  whose  hint  of  cooling  foam. 
Clinging  to  Her,  scarce  made  endurable 
The  dread  delight  of  Her.    As  She  drew  near, 
The  budding  wood  about  Her  burst  and  leaped 
To  brighter  green  mid  Springes  faint,  pale-gold  haze. 
While  all  the  throbbing  world  in  time  did  keep 
The  undulance  of  Her  light,  swaying  walk : 
One  hand  did  stay  a  leaping  breast  perverse. 
Tormenting  with  its  peeping,  half -hid  charm : 
Her  eye,  alight  with  Spring,  did  catch  and  hold 
Springes  guerdons  closer  than  is  mortals'  wont 
For  that  She  had  seen  many  Springs  slow  die: — 
The  changeful  music  of  her  voice  slid  on 
From  notes  of  shivered  silver  lower  down 
To  golden  undertones  that  widened  round 
In  sighing  vibrances  of  deeper  ptdse 
Than  deepest  string,  soft  smitten,  of  the  lyre — 
'Taris,  if  thou  wilt  choose  me,  I  will  give 
To  thee,  the  fairest  woman  in  the  world.'' 
My  heart  so  shaken  was  it  seemed  to  me 
As  though  the  whole  wide,  ravening  sea  therein 
Made  tumidt;  each  fierce  wave,  a  wave  of  flame. 
"But  Thou,  but  Thou,''  was  all  my  stammering  tongue 
Could  say  while  reaching  forth  to  Her  my  hands 
So  close  the  apple  'gainst  Her  girdle  smote. 
Then  She  did  laugh,  nor  shrank  from  me  away : 
'^She  shall  be  fair  as  I,  and  over  thee 

270  '^^^^^^  FORUM 

With  her  eyes  shall  I  keep  true  watch  alway*' — 

And  so  was  gone^  the  apple  Against  Her  cheek. 

But  now,  but  now,  even  as  it  was  to-day, 

I  hear  Her  voice  in  clear-sent  whisper  call 

To  me  amid  the  clamor  of  the  siege. 

Alluring  me  from  meteor-streaming  spears. 

The  locking  shields,  the  searching  swords,  bright  wounds 

And  joy  of  combat,  unto  Helenas  arms; 

Some  strange,  mad  dream  that  tortures  with  a  hint 

^at  She  is  Helen's  self  and  Helen*Hers. 

Yet  always  the  tempestous  rapture  fades 

And  leaves  but  dross  filchM  of  Menelaus. 

Aye,  there  she  lies  now  in  her  chamber  dim, 

Her  shape  curved  down  the  couch,  white  through  the  gloom. 

That  I  coidd  almost  loathe;  her  restless  sleep 

Broken  a  score  of  times  to  stretch  hot  arms 

And  crave  yet  more  caresses.    Yet  in  dreams 

She  babbles  of  her  Spartan  home. 

Oh,  Gods, 
That  I  might  whiff  once  more  the  first  faint  reek 
Of  my  rekindled  fire  and  from  my  door 
Olance  out  o'er  Ida's  black,  gashed,  misty  gorge 
To  spy  my  goats  on  wet  cliffs  opposite 
Nose  toward  the  crisping  herbage  of  the  dawn; 
Might  hear  the  wakening  cry  of  my  own  son 
End  suddenly  against  Aenone's  breast 
And  clasp  them  both,  tight,  tight,  within  my  arms. 

And  yet,  I  cannot  go.    Oh,  sick,  sick  dreams  1 
Such  as  do  follow  frays  and  many  wounds. 
Here  must  I  stay  while  Trojan  women  'reft 
Bevile  me  as  I  move  along  the  walls 
And  hungry  children  mock  me  in  the  streets; 
While  Hecuba  gives  aye  a  toothless  curse 
As  I  draw  near,  fixing  on  me  the  bale, 
Unwavering,  of  her  sightless,  hollow  eyes. 

Charles  T.  Rogers, 


(Professor  of  Romance  Language  in  Bryn  Ifawr  College) 

About  fifteen  or  twenty  years  ago  students  in  European  colleges  and 
universities  were  passing  secretly  from  hand  to  hand  novels  of  a  strange 
character.  They  discussed  the  author  among  themselves^  but  they  did  not 
speak  to  their  professors^  because  they  felt  sure  beforehand  that  the  books 
would  not  be  approved ;  although  perhaps  not  realizing  what  fascinated 
them  so,  they  were  sure  they  liked  the  weird,  mystic  note,  and  words  of 
irony  or  criticism  might  spoil  their  delight. 

This  was  the  time  when  Naturalism  was  being  violently  shaken  from 
right  and  left;  everywhere  people  were  tired  of  brutal  realism,  and  an 
intense  desire  for  a  change  of  atmosphere  in  art  was  manifest;  as 
usual,  professors  were  the  last  ones  to  yield;  they  long  remained  true 
to  the  creed  of  their  generation  (and  of  their  lectures)  when  the  public 
was  already  applauding  Daudet's  sentimentalism,  so  little  in  keeping 
with  apathic  Zolaism  and  when  Symbolists  were  gathering  around  them 
many  a  disciple.    As  to  the  man  who  fascinated  our  youth,  he  was  strik- 
ing a  new  note  too,  but  he  did  not  belong  to  either  of  the  two  move- 
ments just  mentioned.    F^ladan  had  been  bom  in  Lyons,  in  1859 ;  pos- 
sessed of  a  genial  enthusiasm  and  a  thoroughly  artistic  nature,  he 
found  in  himself  energy  enough  to  start  a  movement  of  reaction  all  on 
his  own  account.     Within  a  few  years  he  wrote  twenty  novels  under 
the  general  title  La  decadence  latine,  in  which  he  fought  both  modem 
evils  of  absence  of  art,  and  of  absorption  of  art  by  science;  and  those 
novels  of  his  ''Ethopfe,"  Le  vice  suprhme.  La  victoire  du  mari,  U Andro- 
gyne we  curiously  devoured.    If  there  was  a  thing  the  author  did  not 
care  about,  it  was  to  describe  characters  that  were  *^reaP*  in  the  ordinary 
sense  of  the  word  (as  in  Zola  for  instance) ;  and  another  peculiarity,  a 
thing  almost  incredible  in  our  age,  was  his  olympian  indifference  toward 
all  social  and  .economic  problems.     His  heroes  were  not  unfrequently 
above  the  laws  of  time  and  space;  besides  their  material  bodies,  they  en- 
joyed the  privilege  of  travelling  around  in  an  ethereal  body;  everywhere 
prevailed  the  romanesque  atmosphere  of  magics  and  of  necromancy.    All 
this  proved,  in  fact,  much  too  anti-realistic  for  the  general  public,  who 
did  not  see  the  intensely  spiritual  aspirations  back  of  those  stories.    But 
for  the  61ite,  the  originality  of  this  extraordinary  man  was  evident; 
and  with  a  few  disciples,  P^ladan  organized  a  society,  which  has  re- 
mained famous,  the  Order  of  the  Bose  et  Croix — ^an  imitation  of  the 

272  ^^^^^^  FOBUM 

order  of  the  same  name  in  the  Middle  Ages,  whose  members  de- 
voted themselves  to  the  study  of  the  problems  of  a  supernatural  life. 
The  members  of  the  order  called  themselves  *'Magi,"  and  their  chief 
took  the  title  of  ''Qar'' — Whence  the  name  of  Qar  Pfladan,  under  which 
our  author  is  still  known.  They  held  their  reimions,  open  only  to  the 
initiated,  somewhere  in  Paris,  and  often  represented  plays  that  savored 
of  ancient  and  oriental  mysteries. 

It  seemed  to  me  interesting  to  recall  the  early  career  of  Pfladan 
before  speaking  of  his  last  work,  which  is  that  of  an  erudite.  Age  has 
somewhat  tempered  the  ardor  of  youth;  the  Qbt  gave  up  the  Order,  but 
he  still  believes  like  Hamlet: 

There  are  more  things  in  heaven  and  earthy  Horatio, 
Than  are  dreamt  of  in  your  philosophy. 

He  stiU  scorns  those  little  laws  of  nature  which  our  modern  scholars 
endeavor  to  make  us  believe  are  the  essence  of  wisdom.  The  priests  of 
former  creeds,  Magism,  Zoroastrism,  Buddhism,  Pythagoreanism,  Eleusian- 
ism.  Gnosticism,  and  so  forth,  knew  surely  more  than  we  do,  or  at  least 
were  surely  looking  for  a  truth  more  worth  while  than  the  one  that  gave 
us  telegraph,  telephone  and  automobiles.  P61adan  is  a  devout  Catholic, 
yet  he  sees  in  the  mystic  rites  of  the  Church  much  more  than  formal 
ceremonies  to  dazzle  the  faithful;  he  sees  in  them  the  direct  outcome 
of  the  oriental  and  Greek  mysteries,  the  modern  manifestation  of  similar 
aspirations.  He  has  therefore  devoted  years  of  study  and  has  done  ex- 
tensive travelling  in  Eastern  countries  in  order  to  learn  whatever  pos- 
sible of  the  ideas  of  these  early  sages.  To  his  keen  sense  of  interpreta- 
tion of  myths  and  art,  he  adds  an  erudition  that  would  do  honor  to  many 
an  old  German  professor.^  He  has  given  us  already  several  inspiring 
volumes  regarding  the  different  countries  thus  explored  by  him,  and  now 
his  last  book — ^to  which  I  wish  to  call  attention  here* — is  a  remarkable 
summary  of  the  present  state  of  Oriental  studies,  a  summary  that  can- 
not fail  to  be  welcome  to  those  interested  in  the  numerous  expeditions  sent 
out  year  after  year  to  the  holy  land  and  other  countries  mentioned  in 
the  Bible. 

In  a  suggestive  Introduction,  P61adan  explains  the  real  meaning  of 
archeological  studies.    After  reading  him,  we  understand  better  why  the 

^In  1901  he  made  a  very  interesting  discovery  by  means  of  scholarly  computa- 
tions. He  discovered,  namely,  that  the  grotto  visited  by  pilgrims  to  Jerusalem  as 
the  holy  sepulchre  was  not  the  real  place  where  the  body  of  Christ  had  been 
deposited;  but  that  the  real  sepulchre  was  in  the  Mosque  of  Omar. 

■Lc«  Ideea  et  les  Formes,  Aniiquiii  Orientale,  Par  Josephin  P4ladan.  Paris: 
Mercure  de  France.    1008. 


word  '^Arf  *  is  so  vague  a  term  to-day.  He  demonstrates  how  printing 
has  wrought  irremediable  damage  to  art^  especially  to  plastic  art.  There 
was  a  time  when  people,  with  a  very  few  exceptions,  could  neither  write 
nor  read;  ideas  were  conveyed  to  them  by  architecture  and  other  arts: 
a  pyramid,  a  temple,  a  palace,  were  then  nothing  but  very  large  hiero- 
glyphs. To-day,  on  the  contrary,  when  we  wish  to  express  ideas  we 
write  them  down,  print  them,  and  the  people  to  whom  they  are  destined ' 
read  them  from  the  books.  On  the  one  hand,  therefore,  art  has  become 
useless ;  conveying  ideas  by  means  of  books  is  the  simplest  and  surest 
way;  doing  it  by  art  is  only  a  luxury  on  our  part;  this  has  brought  about 
our  modem  "art  for  the  sake  of  art,"  which  in  itself  is  nonsense: 
^Trinting  has  substituted  words  for  forms,  and  closed  the  era  of  syn- 
thetic art  to  open  the  era  of  analysis  and  specialization.  .  .  .  To-day 
art  for  the  sake  of  art,  which,  not  a  doctrine,  but  a  fact  resulting  from 
social  conditions,  is  synonymous  with  speaking  without  saying  anything.'* 
On  the  other  hand,  we  have,  owing  to  lack  of  practice,  become  blind  for 
the  understanding  of  antique  art ;  man  has  learned  how  to  read,  but  he 
has  forgotten  how  to  see.  'There  is  as  much  transcendental  meta- 
physics in  a  marble  statue  or  column,  as  in  a  treatise  of  Aristotle's; 
only  those  who  read  are  thousands  as  compared  with  the  few  who  can 

QAA   " 

What  Victor  Hugo  did  in  his  immortal  novel  Notre  Dame  de  Paris, 
namely,  interpret  in  words  the  ideas,  beliefs,  hopes,  expressed  in  the 
architecture  of  the  great  cathedral,  Pfladan  does  for  us  with  the 
monuments  of  oriental  antiquity;  he  reads  them  for  us.  This,  for 
instance,  is  his  characterization  of  the  Egyptian  temple :  It  does  not  rise 
(like,  for  instance,  our  cathedrals  with  their  spires),  it  stretches  hori- 
zontally, it  almost  creeps  on  the  ground,  the  immense  area  of  its  basis 
is  the  striking  feature,  thus  "aesthetically,  it  expresses  more  certitude  than 
hope  :^  the  staunch  confidence  of  the  priest  in  his  gods ;  it  is  an  architec- 
ture of  creeds,  of  powerful  affirmation.''  Compare  also  this  characteriza- 
tion of  the  Buddhist  temple :  "The  Hindoo  never  had  the  sense  of  archi- 
tecture; shortsighted  sBsthetically,  he  sees  the  interest  only  of  the  little 
spot  which  he  touches,  and  he  remains  dead-set  on  that.  Ifow,  the  im- 
pression of  the  beautiful  results  only  from  a  harmony  in  the  proportions, 
and  there  remains  no  proportion  with  the  mad  carving  of  the  Aryan 
people  on  the  shores  of  the  Ganges.  Our  middle  ages  conceived  of,  and 
realized,  the  idea  of  the  stone  lace,  but  we  framed  it  within  the  generic 
lines  of  the  edifice,  without  allowing  it  to  outstrip  or  deform  those  lines. 

*The  spire  shooting  up,  the  ogiyp,  ejc.,  gf  Western  countries,  of  Christianity, 
would  express  hope. 

274  THE  FORUM 

The  endless  carving  is  the.  worst  vice.  The  pagoda  of  Chawmuch,  at 
Satrunji,  has  no  longer  any  form/' 

Presented  that  way,  archaeology  is  no  longer  a  dry  science  for  special- 
ists, it  becomes  a  fascinating  study;  and  it  is  because  he  knows  so  well 
how  to  get  in  the  little  remark  which  illuminates  everything  that  P61a- 
dan  is  so  valuable  a  guide.  His  chief  purpose  has  been  to  summarize  for 
us  all  that  is  at  present  known  of  the  history  of  the  Orient  that  may 
serve  us  as  keys  to  understand  better  the  Oriental  art  and  the  riches  that 
accumulate  so  rapidly  in  all  our  museums. 

As  a  sample  of  the  elegance,  the  concision  and  the  absolute  clearness 
of  P61adan's  style,  I  should  like  to  quote  a  passage  which  summarizes 
the  hjrpothesis  suggested  to  modem  scholarship  by  all  the  data  in  hand 
regarding  prehistoric  times: 

'^he  highest  antiquity  is  found  at  the  delta  of  the  Kile  and  at  that 
of  the  Euphrates. 

'^However,  civilization  went  up  the  river  instead  of  down;  a  fact 
which  would  suggest  that  it  was  brought  there  by  sea  and  all  complete, 
since  the  works  of  art  at  Memphis  prove  to  be  the  most  perfect  of  Egypt. 

^'According  to  traditions,  the  famous  deluge  would  have  engulfed  a 
continent,  Atlantis,  which  was  then  the  abode  of  a  complete  civilization; 
and  the  Atlantic  race,  or  Red  race,  dispersed  by  the  cataclysm  would  be 
found  again,  prosperous  near  the  Nile,  less  abundant  and  rapidly  mixed 
in  Chaldea,  erring  and  disabled  on  the  Armorican  coasts,  stupefied  and 
decayed  in  North  America  .  .  .  one  may  also  suppose  that  those  who 
were  to  fix  themselves  definitively  on  the  shores  of  the  Nile,  landed  at  first 
at  ttie  delta  of  ttie  Euphrates,  and  then  not  finding  this  marshy  country 
favorable  for  permanent  staying,  they  left  in  large  quantities  the  Persian 
delta,  crossed  tiie  desert,  and  established  themselves  at  the  oQier  delta.'' 
However  that  may  be,  is  it  not  interesting  to  see  that  modem  scholarship 
is  gradually  driving  us  toward  the  old  biblical  doctrine  of  the  unity  of 
human  civilization?  To  the  writer,  after  closing  the  book,  this  seems 
the  most  valuable  demonstration  of  it.  He  grants  that  he  may  be  preju- 
diced, for  his  own  studies  in  linguistics  and  literature  have  for  a  long 
time  inclined  him  to  admit,  at  the  bottom  of  all  our  civilizations,  no 
matter  how  varied  they  look  to  us  now,  one  common  source,  and  the 
pagan  legend  of  Atlantis  and  the  biblical  story  of  Babel  seem  to  be  only 
two  diflPerent  versions  of  one  and  the  same  prehistoric  fact.  But  now 
there  are  remarkable  little  bits  of  evidence  strewn  in  the  pages  of  ttie 
book  under  consideration,  and  nobody  can  fail  to  see  their  value  in  con- 
nection with  this  problem:  how  does  it  come  that  the  coat  of  arms  of 
the  city  of  Paris  represents  the  barge  of  the  Egyptian  goddess  Isis?  or 


that  the  snperstitiouB  belief  in  the  were-wolf  existed  in  all  antiqnity  in 
Egypt  and  among  the  Celts,  and  nowhere  between?  The  Welsh  menhir 
or  dolmen,  the  Egyptian  obelisk,  the  Bethels  of  the  people  in  the  holy 
land,  are  without  any  possibility  of  a  doubt  the  same  monument;  the 
Chaldean  system  of  triads  of  gods  is  strikingly  similar  to  that  of  the 
Celtic  mabinogi.  And  again  look  at  the  relations  between  Chinese  and 
Chaldean  civilization  and  language ;  or  the  same  notion  of  what  a  monu- 
ment for  the  dead  ought  to  be  in  Egypt  and  in  the  earliest  time  known 
of  the  Chinese  civilization.  These  and  many  other  facts  cannot  be  ex- 
plained by  mere  chance. 

One  of  the  best  chapters  that  illustrates  the  instructive  method  of 
P^ladan,  and  his  contempt  for  accumulation  of  non-relevant  facts  is 
that  on  Phenicia.  Everywhere  you  find  the  Phenicians;  they  travelled 
more  extensively  than  any  other  peoples ;  to  judge  by  their  colonies  they 
must  be  one  of  the  most  genial  races  of  antiquity.  But  Pfladan  says : 
'TPhe  Phenician  is  the  least  of  the  Semites.  He  left  us  neither  an  art  of 
his  own,  nor  a  literature,  and  one  may  add  not  even  a  religion.  But 
studied  in  his  unceasing  moving  about  as  a  inerchant-navigator,  he 
creates  so  numerous  contacts,  so  frequent  contacts  between  so  diverse 
peoples,  that  the  history  of  civilization  would  become  incomprehensible 
without  him.'*  His  greediness  has  served  him  instead  of  genius;  the  un- 
pleasant character  is  shown  in  the  minutest  things,  even  in  the  hand- 
writing of  the  Phenicians  as  compared  with  that  of  other  nations :  'Trom 
the  point  of  view  of  graphology,  this  cursive  hand  corresponds  to  the 
writing  of  the  miser.'*  Finally,  see  how  clearly  he  states  an  interesting 
anthropological  problem :  '^One  can  reconcile  only  with  diflBculty  the  ac- 
tivity and  the  boldness  of  the  race  with  ttie  abomination  of  its  morality. 
It  makes  one  almost  think  that  those  eternal  corrupters  cultivated  vices 
in  order  to  understand  them  better  so  as  to  cater  for  them  better.*' 

The  chapter  on  Israel  is  a  good  test  for  the  impartiality  of  P61adan. 
He  writes,  this  devout  Catholic,  with  perfect  ease  and  calm,  arid  without 
pose  for  paradox  or  apologies  for  heterodoxy,  such  disturbing  little  para- 
graphs as:  "Archaeology  has  ruined  the  religious  prestige  of  Israel.'* 
Or  further  down :  'One  has  been  deceived  up  to  quite  recent  times  with 
regard  to  the  origin  and  the  real  center  of  humanity.  Jerusalem  will  no 
longer  be,  from  now  on,  what  it  was  for  Bacine.  That  mediocre  city  held 
the  position  which  belonged  to  a  more  venerable  past.  ..."  'There  is 
no  Jewish  art:  the  Decalogue  had  forbidded  carved  images,  and  to 
represent  materially,  things  heavenly  or  infernal."  The  explanation  of 
the  part  played  by  Israel  is  thus  given:  'TTie  recent  researches  and 
comparison  of  texts  prove  that  the  originality  of  ttie  Bible  is  more  in 


276  '^^^'^  FORUM 

the  perfection  of  an  incomparable  poetry  than  in  ideas^  and  that  alone 
the  literary  man  was  great  in  Israel:  this  is  what  won  over  occidental 
imagination^  when  the  Gospel  has  appeared  to  him  as  if  it  were  a  sort 
of  second  volume  and  a  realization  of  the  Semitic  book/'  Why  it  took 
so  long  to  find  out  that  there  was  no  relation  between  the  old  Testament 
and  the  new^  this^  F^ladan  admits^  is  not  easily  understood :  '^o  matter 
how  great  the  literary  beauty  of  the  Bible  may  be,  its  adoption  by  the 
occidental  races  remains  the  most  insoluble  problem  of  history,  although 
it  owes  its  good  fortune  to  the  fact  that  it  was  given  out  as  the  prologue 
to  the  Qospel." 

Albert  Schinz, 



Interesting  as  is  the  book  by  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Fennell,  The  Life  of 
James  McNeill  Whistler — ^and  there  is  not  a  dull  page  in  the  two  vol- 
umes— ^it  is  a  thousand  pities  permission  was  legally  denied  them  to  insert 
therein  the  many  letters  from  the  dead  artist  that  were  available,  for  he 
was  no  less  brilliant  with  his  pen  than  he  was  with  his  tongue,  and  he 
surely  did  not  lack  for  cleverness  with  the  latter.  Perhaps,  however, 
we  ought  to  take  the  gifts  the  gods  have  sent  us  with  due  humility  and 
appreciation  and  not  ask  for  too  much,  looking  happy  the  while.  At 
any  rate,  the  reader  will  not  lack  for  amusement  and  entertainment. 
Incidentally  he  will  gather  many  notions  of  the  life,  the  artistic  crowd, 
and  the  happenings  that  covered  a  period  of  some  fifty  years  more  or 
less,  a  half  century  of  a  very  crowded  life,  one  of  great  activity,  astonish- 
ing experiences,  of  failure  and  success,  of  bitter  struggles  and  animosi- 
ties, of  few  friendships  and  those  invariably  broken  after  a  while,  of 
mingled  homage  and  ridicule,  both  disproportionate, — in  short,  of  a  career 
that  is  scarcely  paralleled  in  the  history  of  art.  It  is  the  strange  story  of 
a  most  earnest  man  with  a  highly  irascible  temper,  who  took  himself 
always  with  the  greatest  seriousness  and  managed  by  the  sheer  strength 
of  his  personality  fairly  to  hypnotize  all  with  whom  he  came  in  contact ; 
a  man  so  singularly  artistic  in  every  fibre  of  his  being  that  you  could 
never  mistake  his  endowment.  The  inartistic  jarred  upon  him  as  a 
wrongly-played  chord  would  have  affected  a  musician,  and  to  the  smallest 
detail  he  insisted  on  the  fitness  of  things.  The  personality,  too,  was 
purely  mental,  for  physically  he  was  most  insignificant;  while  toward 
the  end  of  his  life,  strangely  wrinkled,  his  hair  dyed,  a»d  elfiborately, 


not  to  say  insistently  curled,  himself  dressed  in  anytliing  but  fashionable 
garments,  he  was  a  singular  spectacle.  Thus  he  appeared  to  the  present 
reviewer,  who  met  him  for  the  first  time  in  May,  1888,  at  dinner  at  the 
house  of  Mortimer  Menpes,  in  London,  whither  came  Whistler  and 
"Maud,^^  the  former  then  on  terms  of  the  greatest  intimacy  with  Menpes, 
with  whom  there  was  shortly  to  come  the  inevitable  break.  Mr.  PennelFs 
impression  of  him  was  much  the  same,  as  we  leam  in  the  second  volume. 
He  met  him  for  the  first  time  on  July  13,  1884— dates  are  given  through- 
out the  books  with  commendable  exactitude — at  Whistler^s  house  in 
Tite  Street,  Chelsea.  He  had  gone  to  call  to  get  him  to  do  some  work 
for  the  Century  Magazine  and  he  was  armed  with  a  letter  of  introduction 
from  Bichard  Watson^Qilder.  The  door,  in  response  to  his  knock,  was 
opened  wide  by  the  master  himself.  Says  Mr.  Pennell:  "Save  for  his 
little  black  ribbon  tie,  he  was  all  in  white — ^his  waistcoat  had  long  sleeves 
— and  every  minute  it  seemed  as  if  he  must  begin  to  juggle  with  glasses. 
For,  to  be  honest,  my  first  thought  when  I  s^w  him  was  that  a  bar- 
keeper had  strayed  from  a  Philadelphia  saloon  into  a  Chelsea  studio. 
Never  had  I  seen  that  thick  mass  of  black  curling  hair  before  except  on 
the  head  of  the  man  at  Pinelli's  in  Chestnut  Street.'*  This,  it  must  be 
remembered,  is  from  one  who  was  perhaps  the  most  faithful  of  all 
Whistler's  genuine  admirers.  Such,  indeed,  was  the  appearance  he  gave 
the  reviewer,  and  though  the  moment  he  began  to  talk  he  held  one,  still 
it  took  some  time  to  get  rid  of  the  first  impression. 

The  Pennells  saw  much  of  Whistler  in  the  latter  part  of  his  life  and 
received  at  first  hand  many  of  his  impressions  of  men  and  things,  many 
reminiscences,  and  they  learned  much  of  his  earlier  struggles,  for  it  was 
he  who  asked  them  to  write  the  story  of  his  life.  Thus  it  was  that 
they  made  copious  notes,  lay  awake  apparently  to  frame  questions  he 
should  answer,  important  and  necessary  questions  be  it  understood,  ques- 
tions quite  proper  and  of  the  greatest  value  in  enabling  them  to  prepare 
these  books.  That  they  went  at  their  task  affectionately  and  sympa- 
thetically is  evident  at  a  glance,  and  they  have,  with  their  literary  ex- 
perience and  capacity,  done  wonders.  Occasionally  they  have  possibly 
overstepped  the  line,  telling  here  and  there  an  incident  that  were  best 
left  out  and  dropping  into  exaggerations;  but  in  the  main  the  reader 
receives  a  reasonably  exact  view  of  the  man,  who  was  eccentric  to  a  re- 
markable degree;  who,  while  he  furnishes  splendid  material  for  a  biog- 
raphy, would  at  times  have  tried  the  patience  of  Job  himself.  Many 
cities  have  been  claimed  as  his  birthplace,  but  although  Whistler  chose 
in  his  humorous  way  to  deny  it  at  times,  it  was  at  Lowell  that  he  first 
saw  light,  and  this  Massachusetts  town  has  since  made  an  effort  to  pre- 

278  ^™^  FORUM 

serve  the  honse.  A  man  from  that  town  once  told  him  that  he  as  well 
was  bom  there.  Whistler  replied,  '1  shall  be  bom  where  I  want,  and  I 
do  not  choose  to  be  bom  at  Lowell/'  He  was  baptized  James  Abbott, 
but  later  he  dropped  the  Abbott  and  took  his  mother's  maiden  name  of 
McNeill.  His  father  was  an  engineer  oflBcer  of  the  TJ.  S.  Army,  and  the 
Bussian  Government  employed  him  to  build  a  railroad  from  St.  Peters- 
burg to  Moscow;  so  it  was  that  as  a  lad  Whistler  went  to  Bussia  with 
his  mother. to  join  the  father  already  there,  and  he  stayed  some  years. 
His  sister,  on  a  trip  to  England,  met  the  eminent  surgeon  and  later 
etcher,  Seymour  Haden,  whom  she  married,  and  so  was  enabled  to  give 
her  brother  something  of  a  home  in  London  when  he  came  there  from 
Paris,  whither  he  had  gone  to  study  art.  For  he  had  from  his  earliest  in- 
fancy shown  signs  of  that  taste,  though  it  was  not  thought  to  be  much  of 
a  career  for  him.  In  1851,  an  appointment  having  been  secured, 
he  went  to  West  Point,  where  he  entered  the  United  States  Military 

The  story  of  his  experiences  there  has  been  told  many  times.  They 
talk  about  him  yet  in  the  officer's  mess,  and  his  famous  explanation  of 
his  retirement  is  a  household  word.  His  ^^t  silicon  had  been  a  gas,  I 
would  have  been  a  Major-Gteneral,"  is  quoted  the  world  over.  But  it 
seems  that  his  horsemanship  was  little  better  than  his  chemistry,  and 
though  he  left  many  interesting  memories  behind  him,  it  was  quite  evi- 
dent the  good  Lord  had  not  intended  him  to  be  a  soldier.  Yet  to  the 
end  he  never  tired  of  talking  of  the  Point,  and  he  held  to  many  of  the 
traditions  of  the  place.  Particularly  was  this  true  of  his  later  days. 
Like  dear  old  Colonel  Newcome  and  his  memories  of  Grayfriars, 
Whistler  would  constantly  revert  to  old  times  on  the  banks  of  the  Hud- 
son, and  there  was  a  pathos  about  it  too.  The  year  before  he  died,  when 
he  was  seriously  ailing,  he  received  an  expected  visit  from  the  great 
French  sculptor,  Bodin.  There  was  no  work  in  view  about  the  place,  and 
so  it  is  evident  that  Bodin  was  delicate  about  saying  anything  in  refer- 
ence to  it  and  thus  putting  Whistler  to  any  trouble  in  the  matter.  This 
is  Whistler's  account  of  the  visit.  '*It  was  all  very  charming.  Bodin 
distinguished  in  every  way — ^the  breakfast  very  elegant — ^but — ^well,  you 
know,  you  will  understand.  Before  they  came,  naturally,  I  put  my  work 
out  of  sight,  canvases  up  against  the  wall  with  their  backs  turned — 
nothing  in  evidence.  And  you  know,  never  once,  not  even  after  break- 
fast, did  Bodin  ask  to  see  anything,  not  that  I  wanted  to  show  anything 
to  Bodin,  I  needn't  tell  you — ^but  in  a  man  so  distinguished,  it  seemed 
a  want  of — ^well,  of  what  West  Point  would  have  demanded  under  the 


The  Latin  Quarter  of  Whistler  was  still  the  Latin  Quarter  of  Henri 
Murger,  whom  Whistler  got  to  know  when  he  went  to  Paris,  where, 
speaking  the  language  fluently  and  being  at  heart  much  of  a  Latin,  he 
had  more  association  with  the  Parisians  than  with  the  English  or  Ameri- 
cans. Even  late  in  life  Whistler  was  always  quoting  Murger^  and  he 
delighted  in  the  company  of  extreme  bohemians,  men  who  had  barely 
the  necessities  of  living.  Indeed^  in  the  student  days  he  had  some  ac- 
quaintances whom  he  referred  to  as  his  "No-shirt  f riends,'*  men  to  whom 
later  he  lent  his  atelier^  but  who  so  abused  his  hospitality  that  finally  he 
was  obliged  to  give  them  up  altogether.  A  lot  of  the  Englishmen 
who  subsequently  became  royal  academicians  and  great  swells,  Leighton, 
Poynter  and  others,  were  there  at  the  time,  as  well  as  DuMaurier;  but 
Whistler  made  fun  of  them  and  he  was  really  never  one  of  them.  He 
didn't  work  very  hard,  according  to  his  friend  the  sculptor  Drouet,  for 
he  went  too  frequently  to  the  students'  balls,  rarely  getting  up  before 
noon.  In  short,  he  was  a  type  of  student  that  the  quariier  sees, 
alas !  very  frequently.  He  must  have  pulled  himself  together,  however, 
because  one  way  or  another  he  did  considerable  work  when  all  is  con- 
sidered, despite  these  reports.  When  he  had  money — ^generally  for  a  short 
while  after  his  allowance  arrived — ^he  spent  it  in  a  princely  fashion,  and 
then  he  would  resort  to  anything  to  meet  his  passing  needs,  even  to  the 
pawning  of  his  coat,  which  he  did  once  in  the  summer-time,  going  for 
several  days  in  his  shirt-sleeves. 

Toward  1859  he  was  continually  coming  and  going  between  Paris 
and  London,  visiting  his  sister.  Lady  Haden,  at  the  latter  ciiy,  not  always 
to  the  delight  of  herself  or  her  husband,  for  he  had  a  way  of  bringing 
over  friends  who  were  not  invariably  presentable.  Some  of  these  shied 
at  the  shower  bath  in  the  house,  not  being  accustomed  to  such  luxuries. 
When  Legros,  the  artist,  first  heard  the  sound  of  this  bath  in  Haden's 
house  he  enchanted  Whistler  by  asking  him,  "Mais,  man  cher,  qu'esi 
que  (fesi  que  ceite  espece  de  cataracte  de  Niagara  f  But  Whistler 
settled  down  now  in  London  and  took  up  with  the  fellows  among  the  Eng- 
lish crowd  he  had  known  in  Paris.  He  became  at  once  a  leader,  for 
despite  his  eccentricity  he  was  a  most  amusing  chap,  whose  gaiety  was 
contagious  and  who  led  in  all  the  fun.  He  was  a  great  amateur  actor 
and  never,  in  any  direction,  was  he  like  any  one  else.  In  1860  he  had 
finished  his  "At  the  Piano,''  which  attracted  some  favorable  attention, 
and  was  bought  by  John  Phillip,  the  academician,  for  thirty  pounds. 
It  subsequently,  during  Whistler's  own  lifetime,  brought  two  thousand 
eight  hundred  pounds.  The  Daily  Telegraph,  however,  thought  it  "an 
eccentric,  uncouth,  smudgy,  phantom-like  picture  of  a  lady  at  a  piano- 

2g0  ^E'HB  FORUM 

f orte^  with  a  ghostly-lookiiig  child/'  And  it  is  an  interesting  fact  that 
from  the  firsts  even  though  it  was  rarely  praise  he  received^  he  was 
always  noticed^  never  ignored.  Though  he  went  to  Paris  frequently  and 
did  not  a  little  work  there,  he  made  his  home  ever  afterward  in 
London,  attracted  by  the  charm  of  its  fogs,  its  river,  architecture  and 
life,  the  Thames  specially  holding  him  enchanted.  He  dearly  loved 
this  river,  painting  it,  etching  it  and  spending  much  time  along  its 

Early  Mr.  Whistler  as  a  letter-writer  became  a  personage  to  be 
reckoned  with.  His  pen  was  very  frequently  dipped  in  gall,  but  it  is  a 
joy  to  read  him  for  his  very  delightful,  personal  style.  No  one  ever 
wrote  quite  like  him.  Hamerton — ^with  whom  he  had  many  passes, 
always  to  the  critic's  great  discomforture — once,  in  reviewing  his 
"Symphony  in  White,''  stupidly  called  attention  to  the  fact  that  there 
were  many  other  tints  in  the  picture  besides  white.  There  was,  he  main- 
tained, the  reddish  hair  of  the  woman,  for  instance,  her  flesh  color,  a 
bit  of  blue  ribbon  and  so  on.  Whistler  responded :  ^'Bon  Dieu,  did  this 
wise  person  expect  white  hair  and  chalked  faces?  And  does  he  then,  in 
his  astounding  consequence,  believe  that  a  symphony  in  F  contains  no 
other  note,  but  shall  be  a  continued  repetition  of  F  F  F  F?  .  .  .  . 
Fool."  And,  of  course,  the  world  is  familiar  with  Whistler's  studied 
insolence  in  his  reply  to  a  commimication  to  the  New  York  Trib- 
une by  Hamerton,  who  complained  that  Whistler  refused  to  answer 
his  letters.  Whistler  referred  to  the  writer  as  *^a  Mr.  Hamerton," 
which  made  Hamerton  perfectly  furious  and  so  served  Whistler's 

The  book  is  copiously  illustrated;  indeed,  there  are  some  pictures 
in  it  that  might  well  have  been  left  out,  heresy  as  it  is  to  his  admirers  . 
to  say  so.  Not  all  that  Whistler  did  was  pure  gold  by  any  means,  though 
Mr.  Pennell  refers  to  him  as  ''the  greatest  artist  of  his  generation." 
This  statement,  however,  is  open  to  discussion,  though  as  an  etcher  that 
palm  may  be  freely  awarded  him.  We  learn  much  in  the  book  of  his 
way  of  getting  at  the  copper  and  his  methods.  The  story  of  the  famous 
trial  is  told  in  detail,  that  affair  when  Whistler  sued  Buskin  for  dam- 
ages and  received  from  the  jury — one  farthing!  It  came  about  from 
this  paragraph  in  Buskin's  publication,  Fors  Clavigera,  "For  Mr. 
Whistler's  own  sake,  no  less  than  for  the  protection  of  the  purchaser, 
Sir  Coutts  Lindsay  ought  not  to  have  admitted  works  into  the  gallery 
in  which  the  iU-educated  conceit  of  the  artist  so  nearly  approaches  the 
aspect  of  wilful  imposture.  I  have  seen  and  heard  much  of  cockney 
impudence  before  now,  but  never  expected  to  hear  a  coxcomb  ask  two 


hundred  guineas  for  flinging  a  pot  of  paint  in  the  public's  face/'  The 
picture  referred  to  was  "The  Palling  Bocket'*  (Nocturne  in  Black  and 
Gold),  and  curiously  enough,  it  is  now  owned  in  this  city  by  Mrs.  Samuel 

It  is  a  delightful  work  the  Pennells  have  given  us  and  there  cannot 
be  another  so  authoritative  on  the  man.  Their  intimacy  with  him  was 
great,  they  have  the  literary  instinct  for  just  the  right  sort  of  material 
that  goes  to  the  making  up  of  the  volumes,  and  their  extensive  acquaint- 
ance with  painters  enabled  them  to  secure  memories  of  the  man  that  were 
not  possible  otherwise.  To  their  requests  many  have  responded,  giving 
valuable  bits  of  intercourse,  souvenirs,  and  such  matter  that  is  of  the 
liveliest  entertainment.  To  the  very  end  the  authors  hold  one  pro- 
foundly interested  and  the  books  are  put  down  with  regret,  for  even  the 
stranger  feels  he  has  had  the  inestimable  privilege  of  making  the  ac- 
quaintance of  a  wit  whose  lightest  utterance  was  worth  the  while,  who 
was  doing  something  of  value  in  the  world,  had,  as  it  were,  some  excuse 
for  all  his  unconventionality. 

Arthur  Hoeber. 



The  method  of  Mr.  Paul  Wilstach's  biography  of  Eichard  Mans- 
field is  consistently  narrative  throughout.  The  author  never  ventures 
upon  criticism,  eitiier  of  Mansfield  the  actor  or  of  Mansfield  the  man. 
He  limits  his  intention  to  that  of  "making  a  permanent  record  of  the 
events  and  achievements  of  Bichard  Mansfield's  life  and  of  present- 
ing through  them  the  personal  side  of  his  large  and  complex  character 
as  he  revealed  it  to  his  intimates.'*  In  restricting  thus  the  limits  of 
his  labor,  Mr.  Wilstach  exhibited  both  discretion  and  judicious  taste, — 
discretion,  since  the  memory  of  this  momentous  actor  is  too  recent  for  a 
definitive  criticism  of  his  life-work  to  be  at  present  possible,  and  judi- 
cious taste,  since  Mr.  Wilstach's  long  personal  association  with  Mr.  Mans- 
field must  necessarily  have  tended  to  unfit  him  for  formulating  a  final 
critical  judgment  of  the  man. 

Since  the  book  is  not  a  study,  but  a  piece  of  story-telling,  it  is  for- 

^Richard  Mansfield:  The  Man  and  the  Aotor.  By  Paul  Wilstach.  New  York: 
Charles  Scribner's  Sons.    1908. 

282  ^™^  FORUM 

tunate  that  the  story  which  the  author  had  to  tell  is  rich  in  the  essentialfl 
of  romance.  There  were  no  waste  places  or  waiting  periods  in  Mans- 
field^s  life:  he  was  always  doing  something.  He  never  loitered  for  things 
to  happen  to  him;  he  perpetually  made  things  happen.  His  career,  in 
consequence,  was  at  every  point  eventful.  Reviewed  in  retrospect,  it 
almost  has  the  look  of  being  meant  to  be  narrated.  Mr.  Wilstach  sensed 
this,  and  tactfully  determined  to  let  the  story  tell  itself.  With  commend- 
able simplicity,  he  set  forth  his  material  chronologically,  without  mak- 
ing any  attempt  to  marshal  the  events  in  accordance  with  an  ulterior 
intellectual  design.  In  handling  certain  incidents,  such  as  the  famous 
first  performance  of  A  Parisian  Romance,  the  author  displays  an 
engaging  talent  for  direct,  straightforward  narrative.  At  times 
he  writes  a  little  carelessly,  and  here  and  there  a  passage  has  the 
tone  of  being  a  little  more  than  journalism  and  less  than  literature; 
but  for  the  most  part  the  story-telling  is  adequate  to  the  story  that 
is  told« 

The  book  is,  therefore,  readable  and  interesting  in  every  chapter. 
At  times,  however,  in  following  the  account  of  the  actor's  failures  and 
successes,  the  reader  regrets  the  author's  deliberate  avoidance  of  the 
critical  method.  A  record  of  an  artist's  achievement  remains  unsatisfy- 
ing when  it  fails  to  reveal  exactly  what  it  was  that  the  artist  did  achieve. 
I  find  in  my  own  case  that  Mr.  Wilstach's  narrative  is  satisfactory  in 
so  far  as  it  deals  with  any  of  the  twenty  different  parts  of  which  I  remem- 
ber Mansfield's  presentation,  but  that  it  becomes  unsatisfactory  when- 
ever it  deals  with  the  acting  of  a  part  I  never  saw.  I  infer  from  this 
that  a  reader  who  had  never  seen  Mansfield  act  at  all  would  not  be  able 
to  imagine  from  the  present  account  the  aspect  of  his  histrionic  com- 
positions; and  when  it  is  remembered  that  the  American  actor  never 
played  in  England  after  1889,  it  will  be  seen  that  this  lack  of  critical 
exposition  of  his  art  must  limit  the  usefulness  of  the  book  for  an  entire 
great  section  of  those  readers  who  are  interested  in  the  English-speaking 
stage.  This  limitation  will  become  more  regrettable  as  time  advances 
and  the  immediate  memory  of  Mansfield's  acting  is  lost.  It  is,  for 
instance,  a  matter  for  regret  that  Mr.  Wilstach  decided  not  to  take 
advantage  of  the  few  opportunities  that  were  afforded  him  for  measur- 
ing Mansfield  in  comparison  with  his  peers.  For  the  most  part  Mans- 
field created  characters  which  were  never  played,  before  or  since,  by 
anybody  else;  and  the  task  of  assigning  his  place  in  the  history  of  acting 
will  therefore  be  exceedingly  diflScult  for  future  students  of  the  stage. 
But  in  Shylock  and  in  Cyrano  he  invited  comparison  with  two  of  his 
greatest  contemporaries;  and  in  refusing  to  face  the  demand  for  comn 


parative  criticism  thus  created,  Mr.  Wilstach  disappoints  us.  It  would 
be  impossible  for  a  reader  who  had  never  seen  Mansfield's  Shylock  to 
deduce  from  Mr.  Wilstach's  narrative  any  critical  reason  for  the  prevalent 
belief  that  it  was  inherently  a  lesser  work  of  art  than  Sir  Henry  Irving's. 
And  surely  a  studious  comparison  of  the  performances  of  Mansfield  and 
Coqudin  in  Cyrano  de  Bergerac  would  have  contributed  a  great  deal  to 
the  reader's  understanding  of  the  actor's  art. 

In  representing  Mansfield  the  man,  Mr.  Wilstach  has  attempted  a 
sound  impartiality.  His  attitude  is  one  of  undisguised  enthusiasm ;  and 
yet  he  lays  considerable  emphasis  on  those  defects  of  Mansfield's  tempera- 
ment which  made  him  the  least  loved  of  the  great  actors  of  his  time. 
These  defects  Mr.  Wilstach  now  explains  to  the  public  very  much  as 
Mansfield  used  to  explain  them  to  himself.  To  balance  the  scale,  the 
biographer  gives  glowing  accounts  of  the  actor's  lavish  benefactions  and 
kingly  kindlinesses.  Through  all  of  this  the  author  tells  the  truth  and 
nothing  but  the  truth,  but  he  does  not  succeed  in  telling  the  whole  truth. 
The  reason,  once  again,  is  the  absence  of  critical  method.  Mr.  Wilstach 
does  not  strike  at  the  very  soul  and  center  of  the  man  and  create  an 
image  so  entire  as  to  explain  itself. 

The  nature  of  Mansfield  was  essentially  imperial.  He  considered 
life  not  as  something  to  be  loved  or  contemplated  or  enjoyed,  but  as 
something  to  be  conquered,  ruled,  commanded.  He  was  always  undis- 
mayed by  failure,  because  he  lacked  ability  to  imagine  and  to  realize  it» 
He  was  bound  to  win  ultimately,  because  he  never  knew  when  he  was 
beaten.  A  man  of  impulses  and  intuitions,  capricious,  unreasoning,  im- 
petuous, imprudent,  prodigal,  he  escaped*  chaos  solely  by  holding  his 
attention  fixed  upon  his  star.  He  believed  in  his  own  destiny,  and 
thereby  achieved  renown. 

An  indomitable  nature  conquers  admiration.  Hats  will  evermore 
be.  tossed  aloft  when  an  emperor  rides  rough-shod  over  life.  It  is  only 
in  calm,  wise  moments  that  we  grow  aware  of  the  tragedy  of  kingship. 
Mansfield  knew  how  to  command,  but  he  never  learned  to  serve.  With 
dauntless  zest  he  flung  himself  at  life;  but  seldom  did  he  experience  the 
wonder  of  receiving  life  gently  to  his  heart.  His  universe  was  him- 
self ;  he  lacked  ability  to  imagine  others ;  he  missed  the  mystery  of  sym- 
pathy. He  could  be  kind  and  gracious,  but  only  with  an  imperial  ex- 
cess; he  was  incapable  of  what  Wordsworth  has  so  sweetly  phrased, — 
those  'little,  nameless,  unremembered  acts  of  kindness  and  of  love.'* 
He  was  fascinating  as  a  host,  uncomfortable  as  a  guest.  Community 
of  spirit  he  could  not  understand.  He  was  doomed  to  be  admired  or 
disliked :  it  was  scarcely  possible  to  love  him.    How  much  of  life  he  lost 

284  THE  FORUM 

will  be  seen  at  once  by  comparing  his  experience  with  that  of  Joseph 
Jefferson,  whose  life,  as  it  is  charmingly  revealed  in  his  autobiography, 
was  so  much  more  richly  human.  Jefferson's  progress  was  not  blazoned 
by  a  blare  of  imperial  trumpets;  but  he  was  a  man  whom  everybody 

Clayton  Hamilton, 



Mr.  Alden's  recent  volume  of  essays,  gathered  together  chiefly  from 
the  "Editor's  Study,"  in  Harper's  Magazine,  is  divided,  as  the  title 
implies,  into  two  distinct  groups,  which,  as  it  happens,  are  of  very  differ- 
ent degrees  of  interest.  The  first  group,  which  deals  with  the  relation 
of  periodical  to  general  literature,  comprises  a  series  of  eleven  papers, 
ranging  from  an  historical  survey  of  "Early  English  Magazines"  to  a 
discussion  of  such  varied  topics  as  "The  Modem  Writer's  Prosperity," 
the  comparative  popularity  of  modern  writers,  and  the  special  needs  and 
demands  of  "The  American  Audience."  Genial  and  readable  though 
they  are,  and  full  of  felicitous  and  suggestive  slittle  touches,  the  essays 
of  this  first  half,  nevertheless,  fail  to  stimulate  discussion.  They  have 
certain  definite  things  to  say;  they  succeed  in  saying  them  admirably, 
and  we  either  agree  with  them  as  we  read,  or  else  our  disagreement  is 
along  lines  scarcely  meriting  to  be  dignified  by  serious  discussion. 

But  turning  to  the  second  half  of  the  book,  dealing  with  what  the 
author  has  chosen  to  define  as  "The  New  Literature,"  we  find,  on  the 
contrary,  many  things  that  deserve  to  be  examined  in  some  detail ;  because 
while,  on  the  one  hand,  they  take  an  attitude  unusually  sane  and  stimu- 
lating toward  the  whole  present-day  movement  in  literature,  they  present, 
on  the  other  hand,  certain  views  with  which  it  seems  distinctly  worth 
while  to  take  issue.  In  spite  of  the  fact  that  in  his  introduction  Mr.  Alden 
summarily  dismisses,  along  with  other  worn-out  formulas,  "the  fantastic 
label  of  optimist,"  it  is  the  pervading  spirit  of  optimism  that  first  im- 
presses one  in  reading  these  essays — their  unquenchable  faith  in  the 
onward  and  upward  movement  of  letters  and  of  life.  ^TVithin  the 
memory  of  men,  who  have  reached  the  age  of  fifty,  the  human  spirit 
has  found  its  true  centre  of  active  development  and  interpretation,  its 
jeal  modernity" — such  is  the  keynote  of  the  author's  attitude  toward  the 

^Magazine  Writing  and  the  "New  Literature^  by  Henry  Mills  Alden.  New 
York:   Harper  and  Brothers. 


people  and  the  books  of  to-day.  We  have  entered  upon  a  ^^new  psychical 
era/'  an  era  dominated  by  the  ^^new  realism,"  and  it  is  only  within  the 
present  generation  that  "this  quiet  renascence/'  this  break  between  the 
past  and  present,  has  reached  its  finality. 

Now,  there  can  be  no  question  that  in  the  main  Mr.  Alden's  attitude 
is  distinctly  salutary.  It  is  a  good  thing  to  be  reminded  that,  however 
much  we  may  reverence  the  past,  there  is  no  purpose  in  exalting  it  at  the 
expense  of  the  present;  that  however  high  we  may  place  Michelangelo 
and  Milton,  a  painting  like  "The  Last  Judgment,"  a  poem  like  Paradise 
Lost  would  to-day  be  an  impossible  achievement,  because  they  were  the 
inevitable  expression  of  a  spirit  that  we  cannot  revive ;  and  that,  though 
"we  may  deliberately  build  a  new  cathedral,  it  is  after  all  an  anachron- 
ism." These,  and  kindred  products  of  by-gone  eras,  Mr.  Alden  reminds 
us,  "are  far  away  from  us,  who  are  seeking  to  know  what  our  world 
really  means  for  us  in  all  its  possibilities  and  what  are  the  real  values 
of  human  existence."  He  insists,  and  rightly,  that  "whatever  its  heritage 
of  precious  possessions,  every  age  has  its  own  work  to  do,  creatively. 
No  new  time  can  give  us  another  Dante  or  Shakespeare,  or  even  another 
Scott."  He  believes,  above  all,  that  each  epoch  and  each  generation 
should  be  true  to  itself,  and  get  the  most  good  out  of  the  best  that  it 
has  been  capable  of  producing.  And  while  others,  like  Mr.  Alfred  Austin, 
lament  that  the  cultivated  English  audience  of  to-day  is  less  intellectual 
than  that  of  Pope's  time,  Mr  Alden  boldly  declares  it  a  fortunate  thing 
"that  we  do  not  know  Pope's  Essay  on  Man  by  heart,  or  much  give  our 
hearts  to  it  anyway/'  and  adds  his  conviction  that  "the  extensive  apprecia- 
tion of  new  novelists  like  Mrs.  Humphry  Ward  and  Maurice  Hewlett 
is  a  very  satisfactory  test  of  the  intellectuality  of  our  period." 

Now,  all  this  is  eminently  wholesome ;  because  one  may  say,  without 
fear  of  contradiction,  that  there  is  an  ingrained  and  mistaken  belief  on  the 
part  of  a  large  majority  of  the  reading  public  that  when  they  are  reading 
books  that  have  stood  the  test  of  two  or  three  generations  they  are  reading 
literature,  while  if  the  title-page  bears  the  date  of  the  current  year, 
they  are  not;  that  if  they  are  spending  an  hour  or  two  over  Scott  or 
Dickens,  they  are  improving  their  minds,  while  if  they  are  reading  even 
the  very  best  that  the  younger  generation  of  novelists  has  to  offer,  they 
are  at  most  indulging  in  an  excusable  relaxation.  This  view,  of  course, 
is  arrant  nonsense.  The  only  valid  argument  to  be  offered  in  favor 
of  those  who  prefer  to  limit  their  reading  to  books  published  prior  to 
the  nineteenth  or  the  eighteenth  or  the  seventeenth  century  is  that  the 
further  back  you  go,  the  more  effectually  has  time  served  the  purpose  of 
winnowing  out  the  trash,  and  the  leiss  danger  there  is  of  mistakes  on 

286  THE  FORUM 

the  part  of  the  reader  who  cannot  or  will  not  judge  for  himself.  The 
critical  mind,  of  course,  is  a  gift  not  given  impartially  to  every  one; 
but  worse  than  the  blunder  of  misplaced  enthusiasms  is  that  self -distrust 
in  one's  literary  judgment  which  results  in  a  habit  of  depreciation,  border- 
ing on  contempt,  towards  practically  all  authors  whom  authoritative 
criticism  has  not  definitely  and  conveniently  labeled  ''Classic/'  There- 
fore, for  his  fearless  and  emphatic  encomium  upon  the  New  Literature, 
Mr.  Alden's  volume  is  entitled  to  cordial  recognition  as  serving  a  high 
purpose  in  the  cause  of  letters. 

But  let  us  examine  a  little  further  into  what  Mr.  Alden  regards  as 
the  distinctive  qualities  of  this  New  Literature;  what  he  thinks  are  the 
main  tendencies  of  the  current  movement;  whom  he  looks  upon  as  the 
torch  bearers  of  the  present  generation.  When  we  come  to  details  like 
these,  the  answers  are  not  altogether  easy  to  summarize.  ''Every  age  has 
its  own  work  to  do  creatively .'*  That,  as  already  said,  is  his  starting 
point.  No  generation  can  or  should  reduplicate  the  artistic  forms  and 
ideals  of  the  generation  before  it.  To  this  extent  it  is  quite  easy  to  find 
one's  self  in  accord  with  Mr.  Alden.  But  his  reason  for  insisting  on  the 
necessity  of  this  constant  movement  in  the  form  and  the  aim  of  art  is 
based  upon  his  belief  in  the  constant  and  radical  changes  in  human 
nature.  Flatly  contradicting  the  widely  accepted  view  of  the  everlasting 
sameness  of  human  nature,  "not  merely  in  its  constituent  elements,  but 
in  its  motives,  impulses,  and  sense  of  life,''  Mr.  Alden  finds  a  series  of 
marvelous  and  sweeping  changes,  which  result,  if  we  pass  from  Sophocles 
and  Phidias  to  Dante  and  Michelangelo,  in  what  is  practically  "a  new 
human  nature" ;  he  tells  us  that  "passing  from  Da^te  to  Wordsworth  the 
psychical  transformation  is  still  more  wonderful ;"  and  that  at  present  we 
are  living  in  a  time  when  "a  decade  stands  for  an  epoch  in  psychical  evolu- 
tion." The  particular  feature  of  this  modern  psychical  evolution  which  bears 
directly  upon  the  younger  literature,  Mr.  Alden  defines  as  a  new  "sensi- 
bility to  reality" — ^by  which  term  he  means  that  demand  which  has 
become  general  on  the  part  of  the  public  for  a  closer  conformity  to  the 
actualities  of  life  on  the  part  of  the  makers  of  creative  literature;  a 
steady  tendency  in  the  direction  of  realism — ^to  use  the  word  in  its 
current  sense — as  regards  details  of  setting,  naturalness  of  colloquial 
speech,  subtle  truth  of  psychological  interpretation — and  that,  too,  quite 
regardless  of  whether  the  book  as  a  whole  is  to  be  classed  as  realistic  or 
romantic.  It  is  because  human  nature  has  changed,  Mr.  Alden  argues, 
because  the  individual  man  and  woman  knows  vastly  more  about  material 
things  and  things  of  the  spirit  than  the  men  and  women  of  a  century  ago, 
and  what  is  more,  knows  them  quite  differently,  that  the  novel  of  to-day  is 


radically  different  from  the  novels  of  Defoe  and  Smollett,  Richardson  and 
Fielding — that  in  substance  is  Mr.  Alden's  chief  claim.  And  that 
is  where  one  feels  inclined  rather  emphatically  to  take  issue  with  him. 

To  confine  the  discussion  to  fiction,  which  is  after  all  what  Mr.  Alden 
mainly  has  in  mind  whenever  he  talks  of  the  New  Realism,  there  is 
another  factor  quite  as  potent  as  any  change  of  human  nature  could  be, 
— namely,  the  improved  technique  of  the  modem  novel.  Mr.  Alden,  to 
be  sure,  does  not  wholly  overlook  the  fact  that  there  has  been  a  gain 
in  technique.  Indeed,  he  is  careful  to  say  that  there  have  been  radical 
changes  and  great  improvements  in  the  whole  conception  both  of  the 
novel  and  short  story  as  artistic  forms.  What  he  fails  to  feel  is,  that  it 
is  the  modem  understanding  of  technique  which  makes  the  vital  differ- 
ence between  the  successive  stages  of  development  in  the  English  novel. 
The  aim  of  the  novelist  has  always  been  to  tell  the  truth  as  nearly  as  his 
mind  can  conceive  it  and  his  mastery  of  pen  strokes  and  verbal  color  can 
reproduce  it.  The  crude  forms  of  archaic  statues,  the  faulty  drawing  of 
primitive  Italian  frescoes  do  not  mean  that  those  pioneer  artists  saw  less 
truly  the  world  about  them  than  Phidias  and  Praxiteles,  Raphael  and 
Leonardo.  But  they  do  mean  that  technique  still  has  some  mighty 
strides  to  make.  And  when  we  compare  a  novel  by  Fielding  with  one 
by,  let  us  say,  Henry  James  (rather  than  follow  Mr.  Alden  in  his  un- 
fortunate choice  of  that  greatly  overrated  writer,  Mrs.  Humphry  Ward), 
the  "vast  difference"  which  our  critic  finds  equally  in  the  "superficial 
portraiture"  and  the  ^Tiidden  meanings  of  life"  is  mainly  explicable  on 
the  grounds  of  method — and  that,  too,  after  we  have  fully  granted  Field- 
ing^s  psychological  limitations  and  Mr.  Henry  James's  marvelous  and 
unequaled  insight.  Tom  Jones,  whether  you  rank  it  as  a  great  book 
or  not;  whether  you  are  carried  along  by  the  bold,  frank,  virile  humor 
of  it  or  repelled  by  its  Rabelaisian  coarseness,  is  not  merely  on  a  different 
but  on  a  very  much  lower  plane  than,  let  us  say.  The  Ambassadors — ^not 
because  the  world  knew  less  a  hundred  years  ago  than  it  does  to-day,  but 
because,  measured  by  modern  standards,  Tom  Jones  is  a  crude,  amor- 
phous, attempt,  the  expression  of  an  art  that  has  not  yet  thrown  off 
the  throttling  hold  of  the  picaresco  school;  while  any  one  of  Henry 
James's  masterpieces  shows  the  infinite  care,  the  perfect  polish,  the 
supreme  development  of  an  art  that  has  found  itself. 

It  is  this  simple  fact  of  the  all-importance  of  form  in  the  best  of 
our  modern  fiction  which  explains  one  thing  that  seems  especially  to 
puzzle  Mr.  Alden — ^namely,  that  so  many  of  our  best  writers  seem  to 
eschew  popularity.  It  is  a  tmism,  but  none  the  less  regrettable,  that  the 
general  public  is  not  keenly  interested  in  the  highest  developments  of 

288  THE  FORUM 

artistic  form.  They  would  rather  read  Mr.  Hall  Caine  or  Mr.  George 
Barr  McCutcheon  than  either  Mr.  Meredith  or  Mr.  Hardy;  and  even 
a  more  limited  and  discerning  public  prefer  Mrs.  Humphry  Ward  or 
Mr.  Eobert  Hichens  to  the  finer  work  of  Maurice  Hewlett  and  of  Joseph 
Conrad.  It  is  because  our  younger  writers  of  to-day  have  many  of  them 
learned  their  technique  well,  that  they  find  if  they  will  live  up  to  their 
ideals  they  must  perforce  sacrifice  a  widespread  popularity. 

Let  us,  by  all  means,  join  with  Mr.  Alden  in  hailing  the  New  Eealism 
confidently,  gladly,  even  enthusiastically,  for  there  have  been  better 
novels  written  in  the  last  decade  than  in  any  previous  epoch  of  English 
literature.  But  let  us  make  no  mistake  regarding  the  grounds  of  our 
admiration,  remembering  that  when  a  standard  of  artistic  excellence 
has  once  been  set  we  have  no  right  to  debase  it  by  extolling  that  which 
falls  short  of  the  best.  Let  us  feel  quite  confident  that  there  are  a  few 
writers  to-day  who  in  spite  of  Mr.  Alden^s  insistence  on  the  growing 
tendency  toward  evanescence  are  likely  to  survive — ^writers  like  Kipling 
and  Hewlett  and  Joseph  Conrad,  Kenneth  Graham  and  Alfred  OUivant 
— ^long  after  other  writers  whom  Mr.  Alden  seems  to  admire  to  an  equal 
degree  shall  have  been  forgotten. 

Frederic  Taber  Cooper. 



Hyperion  of  poets — shining  one ! 

To  thy  pavilion  in  the  realm  of  air 

Can  my  souFs  incense  rise?    Art  thou  aware 
Thy  name  in  every  singer's  orison 
Is  writ  in  stars,  not  water  ?    Has  there  none 

Of  all  earth's  dying  dreamers  scaled  the  stair 

Of  light  after  thee,  breathless  to  declare 
Even  to  thy  face  thy  fame  beneath  the  sun  ? 

But  maybe  in  the  region  where  thou  art, 
No  rumor  of  the  world  or  the  world's  ways 

Can  ever  come.    Thy  dreams  are  now  a  part 
Of  God's  own  vision,  and  thy  deathless  lays 

Signed  by  His  name.    Beholding  Him,  thy  heart 
Is  all  oblivious  of  human  praise. 

Elsa  Barker. 

The  FSrum 

APRIL,  1909 



Fob  forty  years  the  South  has  been  politically  solid.  It  has  faith- 
fully and  even  blindly  supported  the  national  nominees  pf  the  Demo- 
cratic pariy^  giving  its  electoral  vote  in  many  instances  to  men  who 
were  repudiated  in  the  very  States  which  claimed  them  as  favorite  sons. 
Is  the  time  near  at  hand  when  this  political  solidity  is  to  be  disturbed? 
Will  the  Southern  States  experience  regeneration? 

There  is  already  disintegration  along  the  edges  of  the  South. 
Maryland  and  West  Virginia^  once  doubtful^  have  passed  into  the 
category  of  almost  certain  Eepublican  States,  while 
Mr.  Taft's  Kentucky,  Missouri  and  Tennessee  occasionally  waver 

Interest  in  in  their  allegiance  to  the  Democratic  party.     In  the 

the  South  heart  of  the  section,  as  in  Georgia,  there  is  a  very 

apparent  growth  of  Sepublicanism ;  and  even  in 
Alabama  and  Texas  ostracism  does  not  follow  abandonment  of  the 
Democratic  faith  as  it  did  in  years  gone  by.  It  is  more  than  possible 
that  in  the  next  four  years  the  country  will  witness  something  like  a 
radical  departure  of  the  South  from  its  old  traditions.  To  induce 
the  South  to  break  away  from  these  ancient  moorings  is  the  task 
to  which  President  Taft  is  devoting  himself,  and  if  he  shall  accom- 
plish his  desire  he  may  well  regard  the  result  as  the  climax  of  his 

Nearly  three  years  have  elapsed  since  Mr.  Taft  first  gave  evidence 

of  his  sincere  interest  in  conditions  in  the  South.    While  still  Secretary 

of  War  he  made  a  journey  to  the  thriving  town  of  Greensboro,  North 

Carolina,  for  the  purpose  of  telling  the  Southern  people  that  he  thought 

Pmmstion  to  repubUsh  artidei  i$  reserved 

290  THE  FOKUM 

the  time  had  come  when^  for  their  own  interest,  they  should  exerdse 
political  independence.  "I  believe  that  nothing  that  could  happen  in 
the  politics  of  this  country/'  he  said,  *Vould  work  greater  advantage  to 
the  country  at  large,  and  to  the  South  in  particular,  than  the  breaking 
up  of  what  has  been  properly  known  as  the  Solid  South.'*  No  one  will 
question  Mr.  Taffs  assertion  that  this  declaration  was  not  inspired  by 
a  partisan  spirit.  He  doubts,  in  fact,  whether  the  Bepublican  party 
would  profit,  in  the  long  run,  by  the  addition  of  Southern  electoral 
votes  to  its  column,  inasmuch  as  independence  in  the  South  might  easily 
lead  into  the  Democratic  party  many  Northern  voters  who  are  now 
Bepublicans  because  they  resent  ^'the  injustice  and  danger  of  Southern 
political  conditions.''  Since  this  Greensboro  speech  Mr.  Taft  has  ad- 
dressed himself  with  effective  frequency  to  similar  discussions,  not  even 
omitting  the  subject  in  his  inaugural  speech.  He  has  met  with  Southern 
men  on  every  possible  occasion;  and  when  resting  from  the  arduous 
labors  of  his  campaign  he  went  into  the  South  with  the  feeling  that  he 
was  a  welcome  visitor.  The  sincere  hospitality  extended  to  him  was 
ample  manifestation  of  the  fact  that  he  had  won  the  hearts  of  his 
fellow-countrymen  in  the  South,  even  if  their  political  allegiance  had 
not  been  secured. 

It  is  peculiarly  fortunate  that  at  the  present  time  President  Taft 
and  the  South  entertain  these  reciprocal  sentiments  of  regard,  because 

the  Southern  States  are  now,  more  than  ever  before. 
The  South  awakened  to  a  thorough  appreciation  of  their  great 

Needs  possibilities   in  the  matter  of  material  development. 

Taft's  Aid  They  suffered   long  under   adverse  conditions.     The 

period  immediately  succeeding  the  Civil  War,  when 
recuperation  demanded,  and  should  have  enjoyed,  the  most  favorable 
circumstances  was,  unfortunately,  characterized  by  political  conditions 
which  retarded  progress  and  especially  proved  an  obstacle  to  needed 
immigration.  A  better  feeling  eventually  prevailed,  but  the  South  was 
still  hampered  in  its  progress  by  the  recurrence  of  fever  in  the  Gulf 
States  and  by  the  inadequacy  of  its  transportation  facilities.  Much  that 
was  uttered  against  the  South  was  pure  misrepresentation,  but  there  was 
enough  of  truth  in  the  assertions  to  give  the  semblance  of  actuality  to 
every  statement.  Now,  however,  the  dreaded  yellow  fever  has  practically 
disappeared,  and  the  reports  of  the  federal  health  bureau  show  that 
the  climatic  conditions  by  no  means  warrant  the  characterization  of  the 
South  as  an  unhealthy  section.  On  the  contrary.  Dr.  Walter  Wyman, 
the  Surgeon-General  of  the  Public  Health  and  Marine  Hospital  Bureau, 


is  authority  for  the  statement  that  the  freedom  from  cold  winters  is 
one  of  the  privileges  of  the  South,  that  the  absence  of  extreme  tem- 
peratures is  a  blessing,  and  that  the  open  air  life  which  the  balmy 
character  of  the  Southern  section  invites  is  a  most  desirable  aid  to 

It  is  true,  however,  that  the  railroad  facilities  of  the  South  are  not 
sufficiently  developed.  The  fact  is  that  there  are  more  miles  of  third 
and  fourth  tracks  in  the  North  and  Middle  West  than  there  are  miles 
of  double  track  in  the  entire  country  south  of  the  Ohio  and  Potomac 
rivers  and  east  of  the  Mississippi.  For  this  condition,  however,  the 
South  itself  is  largely  responsible.  It  is  a  condition  which  is  not  entirely 
economic,  but,  in  a  great  measure,  political.  The  sweep  of  Populism 
through  the  South  some  years  ago,  followed  by  the  declarations  in  the 
Democratic  national  platforms  and  by  Democratic  leaders,  resulted  in  a 
spirit  of  antagonism  to  the  railroad  interests,  and  this  hostility  found 
expression  in  adverse  legislation.  The  railroads  in  the  South  were,  even 
under  most  careful  management,  restricted  to  a  narrow  margin  of  profit; 
and,  in  many  instances,  this  slight  return  was  still  further  decreased  by 
the  application  of  net  earnings  to  the  purchase  of  additional  rolling 
stock,  the  improvement  of  the  road  beds  and  the  enlargement  of  terminal 
facilities.  State  laws,  however,  reduced  the  passenger  receipts,  and 
other  phases  of  hostility  created  such  resentment  on  the  part  of  the 
railroads  that  contemplated  enterprises  were  indefinitely  postponed  and 
improvements  under  way  were  abandoned.  In  addition  to  this,  the  fact 
that  capital  was  liable  to  be  placed  in  jeopardy  at  any  moment  chilled 
the  enthusiasm  of  investors  and  halted  the  progress  which  the  South 
was  enjoying.  President  Finley,  of  the  Southern  Bailway,  than  whom 
there  is  no  more  able  or  thoughtful  executive,  has  done  much  to  bring 
the  South  into  a  realization  of  the  fact  that  if  that  section  is  to  prosper 
it  must  encourage  rather  than  hinder  the  work  which  the  railroad  cor- 
porations are  doing. 

There  ia  every  reason  to  believe  that  President  Taft  will,  more  than 
any  of  his  predecessors,  assist  in  promoting  the  objects  which  have  called 
the  Southern  Commercial  Congress  into  being.  This  organization,  which 
had  its  birth  in  Chattanooga  last  August,  has  already  purchased  an 
admirable  site  in  the  national  capital  upon  which  it  proposes  to  erect 
a  building  devoted  to  exploiting  the  resources  and  attractions  of  the 
South.    Its  proposed  attainments  are  thus  epigrammatically  set  forth : 

To  produce  throughout  the  South  a  greater  self-knowledge. 

To  free  the  mind  of  the  world  from  misapprehension  regarding  the  South. 

To  inform  by  authoritative  utterances  regarding  the  possessions  of  the  South. 


To  bring  men  together  in  the  language  of  commerce,  which  is  the  language 
of  peace. 

To  show  the  importance  of  conserving  rather  than  wasting;  of  using  yet  not 

The  programme  thus  briefly  outlined  is  most  compiehensiye,  and 
Washington  is  the  ideal  place  for  its  successful  execution.  The  Geologi- 
cal Survey  will  supply  the  data  relative  to  mineral  resources;  the 
weather  bureau  will  afford  statistics  regarding  climatic  conditions;  the 
federal  health  bureau  will  furnish  the  figures  which  demonstrate  a  low 
mortality;  the  census  office  can  give  details  of  population  and  immigra- 
tion, together  with  the  results  achieved  in  the  line  of  agricultural  and 
manufacturing  industries;  and^  finally,  the  ambassadors  and  foreign 
ministers  can  be  made  effective  agents  in  giving  world-wide  publicity  to 
the  information  thus  obtained.  Most  of  all,  a  sympathetic  President 
in  the  White  House  can  effectively  aid  in  the  desired  development  by 
his  appreciation  of  the  conditions  which  prevail  in  that  section  and  by 
placing  the  material  interests  of  the  South  above  partisan  political 
considerations.  The  attitude  of  the  President  is  thus  a  matter  of 
national  concern. 

Some  indication  of  Mr.  Taft's  purpose  was  afforded  when,  during 
the  campaign,  he  undertook,  through  his  chief  lieutenant,  Mr.  Hitch- 
cock, to  deal  with  a  new  element  in  the  South.    For 
Pn^^  many  years  the  Eepublican  party  in  the  South  had 

Friction  been  a  by-word  and  a  reproach.    It  consisted  mainly 

Avoided  of  a  few  men  who  seemed  to  be  Bepublicans  for  revenue 

only.  They  regarded  federal  offices  as  proper  objects 
for  barter  and  gain,  and  were  faithful  to  the  Bepublican  organization 
because  of  the  personal  aggrandizement  which  resulted.  There  were 
some  notable  and  praiseworthy  exceptions  to  this  rule,  but  they  con- 
stituted a  lonely  minority.  As  far  as  possible,  Mr.  Taft  ignored  these 
professional  politicians  and  allied  himself  with  men  who  were  Bepub- 
lican through  principle  and  whose  espousal  of  the  Eepublican  cause  gave 
standing  to  the  party  in  the  communities  where  they  resided.  The 
wisdom  of  his  action  has  been  fully  demonstrated.  He  has  made  the 
Republican  party  respectable  in  the  South.  He  has  infused  genuine 
life  into  a  perfimctory  organization.  He  has  convinced  the  South  that 
intelligence  and  honesty  and  character  stand  higher  in  his  regard  than 
mere  political  control.  To  any  one  unacquainted  with  the  conditions 
which  have  existed  in  the  South  during  the  past  two  decades  it  is 
difficult  to  convey  an  adequate  conception  of  the  transformation  which 


has  beea  accomplished.  It  means  that  Mr.  Taft  has  advanced  in  tre- 
mendous degree  the  likelihood  of  a  rift  in  the  hitherto  unbreakable 
solidity  of  the  South. 

Most  notable,  as  an  evidence  of  the  new  era,  is  the  change  in  the 
coUectorship  of  the  port  of  Charleston,  South  Carolina.  With  per- 
sistency characteristic,  Mr.  Boosevelt  nominated  and  renominated 
Dr.  William  D.  Crum,  a  negro,  for  that  position.  The  appoint- 
ment was  universally  unpopular,  and  the  protests  of  the  South  Carolina 
senators  prevented  confirmation.  It  being  evident  that  President  Taft 
did  not  intend  to  retain  Dr.  Crum  in  office,  the  resignation  of  that 
official  was  tendered,  and  Mr.  Edward  W.  Durant,  Jr.,  has  been  nomi- 
nated. Mr.  Durant,  although  a  Bepublican  all  of  his  life,  is  the  son  of 
a  Minnesota  man  who  was  a  Democrat  until  he  left  the  Democratic  party 
because  he  could  not  support  Mr.  Bryan.  He  has  been  a  resident  of 
Charleston  for  only  seven  years.  Although  he  is  a  Northerner  and  a  Be- 
publican, Mr.  Durant's  selection  is  thoroughly  acceptable  to  the  people  of 
Charleston,  irrespective  of  party  affiliation,  because  he  is  identified 
with  the  business  interests  of  the  city  and  because  he  is  known  to 
be  capable.  The  South  Carolina  senators  promptly  acceded 
to  the  confirmation  of  the  new  appointee,  and  the  collector  of  the 
port  of  Charleston  will,  as  long  as  Mr.  Taft  is  President,  not  only 
be  an  official  whose  incumbency  will  reflect  credit  upon  the  city, 
but  he  will  be  able  to  conduct  without  friction  the  business  of  his 

Some  years  ago  the  collector  of  the  port  of  Wilmington,  North 
Carolina,  was  a  negro.  There  was  not  only  constant  irritation  between 
him  and  those  having  business  relations  with  his  office,  but  in  every 
social  fimction — and  hospitable  entertainment  of  marine  visitors  is  a 
feature  of  Southern  ports — ^he  was  studiously  ignored.  Similar  condi- 
tions have  prevailed  in  Charleston.  It  is  due  to  Mr.  Taft  that  in  the 
latter  city,  at  least,  they  have  become  a  thing  of  the  past.  It  may  be 
that,  when  it  comes  to  casting  their  votes,  the  Southern  Democrats  will 
still  be  Democrats,  but  certainly  the  edge  of  their  bitterness  toward 
Bepublican  administration  will  have  been  dulled.  They  must  appre- 
ciate the  fact  that  President  Taft  has  no  desire  deliberately  to  create 
friction  nor  to  invite  an  unpleasant  situation.  They  must  feel  that  he 
is  not  deaf  to  their  appeals,  and  that,  even  at  the  risk  of  losing  pres- 
tige with  a  numerous  contingent  of  his  party,  he  does  not  intend  to 
impose  unpleasant  conditions  upon  the  business  element  in  the  South; 
and  this  element,  daily  growing  larger  and  more  influential,  will  nat- 
urally regard  him  with  a  spirit  of  gratitude. 

294:  THE  FORUM 

It  is  safe  to  say  that  the  entire  negro  race  has  witnessed  the  incom- 
ing of  President  Taft  with  feelings  of  the  liveliest  curiosity.     The 
colored  people   never  knew   exactly  where   President 
Mr.  Taft  Eoosevelt  stood.    At  one  moment  they  applauded  him 

and  the  most  heartily  and  at  the  next  instant  they  were  con- 

Negro  demning  him  in  violent  terms.    His  attitude  was  con- 

stantly contradictory.  Professor  Kelly  Miller,  the  ablest 
member  of  the  faculty  of  Howard  University,  once  summed  up  Mr. 
Roosevelt's  conflicting  actions  in  interesting  fashion.  He  pointed  out 
that  Mr.  Eoosevelt,  as  civil  service  commissioner,  had  manfully  resisted 
the  dismissal  of  colored  employees  of  the  Government  when  a  Democratic 
administration  came  into  power,  and  yet,  as  Governor  of  New  York,  had 
delivered  a  most  perfunctory  address  upon  Frederick  Douglass;  while 
as  historian  of  the  battle  of  San  Juan  he  had  withheld  from  the  negro 
troops  the  praise  which  was  their  rightful  due.  As  President  he  had 
lunched  familiarly  with  Booker  T.  Washington;  and  yet,  in  a  message 
to  Congress,  had  *'set  forth  and  embalmed  in  an  oflBcial  document  and 
held  up  to  the  gaze  of  all  the  world"  the  'lecherous  tendency  of  the 
negro  race.'*  He  had  appointed  Dr.  Crum  to  be  collector  of  the  port 
of  Charleston,  and  had  sustained  him  in  that  position  despite  a  storm 
of  protest;  and  yet,  by  an  order  which  might  well  be  regarded  as  arbi- 
trary if  not  illegal,  he  had  summarily  consigned  to  everlasting  disgrace 
several  companies  of  a  colored  regiment  stationed  at  Brownsville,  with- 
out affording  the  men  an  opportunity  to  prove  their  innocence. 

After  this  experience,  and  especially  in  view  of  President  Taft's 
promptness  in  deposing  Dr.  Crum,  it  can  well  be  understood  that  the 
negro  race,  not  only  in  the  South,  but  throughout  the  nation,  is  eagerly 
awaiting  further  developments.  There  are  three  great  problems  in  this 
country — ^the  control  of  monopolistic  corporations,  the  relations  of  labor 
and  capital,  and  the  future  of  the  negro.  The  first  two  are  economic 
and  can  be  adjusted  without  passion;  the  last  is  racial  and  sociological, 
and  its  solution  will  require  the  exercise  of  the  wisest  statesmanship  for 
many  years  to  come.  In  his  personal  concern  for  the  advancement  of 
the  South,  President  Taft  must  necessarily  come  face  to  face  with  the 
negro  problem.  He  has  already  marked  out  with  some  clearness  the 
course  which  he  intends  to  pursue.  He  is  not  in  favor  of  universal 
suffrage  for  the  negro,  provided  the  ignorant  and  irresponsible  of  the 
white  race  are  also  denied  the  privilege  of  voting.  He  holds  that  when 
the  laws  of  the  Southern  States  are  not  at  variance  with  the  Constitu- 
tion, it  is  not  the  disposition  or  within  the  province  of  the  Federal 
Government  to  interfere  with  the  domestic  affairs  of  the  South.     He 


believes  that  the  appointment  of  negroes  to  oflBce  is  an  encouragement 
and  an  appreciation  of  the  progress  of  the  race,  *Tt)ut  it  may  well  admit 
of  doubt/^  he  adds,  "whether,  in  the  case  of  any  race,  an  appointment 
of  one  of  their  number  to  a  local  oflBce,  in  which  the  race  feeling  is  so 
widespread  and  acute  as  to  interfere  with  the  ease  and  facility  with 
which  the  local  government  business  can  be  done  by  the  appointee,  is 
of  suflBcient  benefit  by  way  of  encouragement  to  the  race  to  outweigh 
the  recurrence  and  increase  of  race  feeling  which  such  an  appointment 
is  likely  to  engender."  He  would  solve  the  negro  question  by  appealing 
to  the  South  to  insure  the  industrial  and  intellectual  advancement  of 
the  race.  He  regards  it  as  certain  that  when  a  colored  man  has  acquired 
property,  thus  making  himself  sensitive  to  the  burden  of  taxation  and 
quickening  his  interest  in  honest  economical  government,  and  when  he 
has  reached  a  status  of  recognized  intelligence,  his  exercise  of  the  ballot 
will  not  be  seriously  contested. 

It  is  hardly  likely  that  the  negro  problem  will  be  finally  settled 
during  Mr.  Taft*s  administration,  and  yet  it  is  within  the  power  of  the 
President  materially  and  even  mightily  to  advance  its  solution.  He  is 
a  friend  of  the  negro— a  wise  and  sympathetic  friend,  who  sees  the 
shortcomings  of  the  black  man  and  yet  is  thoroughly  alive  to  the 
potentialities  of  the  race.  He  is  peculiarly  fitted  to  assist  the  negro 
because  of  his  friendly  relations  with  the  South,  where  the  negro  is  an 
important  factor.  The  South  will  listen  to  Mr.  Taft;  and  when  the 
latter  insists,  as  he  does,  that  the  negro  shall  be  dealt  with  according 
to  law  and  not  upon  the  basis  of  traditional  prejudice,  there  is  reason 
to  hope  that  his  words  will  be  effective.  There  is  no  question  that  the 
salvation  of  the  colored  race  in  the  South  lies  in  its  increased  financial 
and  educational  standing.  There  are  innumerable  examples  of  negroes 
in  the  South  who  not  only  are  living  in  peace,  but  have  won  the  respect 
of  the  white  population  because  they  have  cultivated  habits  of  thrift  and 
industry.  The  colored  farmer  in  the  South — and  in  Governor  Varda- 
man's  State  nearly  three-fifths  of  the  farms  are  directed  by  black  pro- 
prietors— ^receives  as  much  for  his  cotton  as  the  white  planter.  The  labor 
which  the  negro  contributes  toward  the  production  of  wealth  is  mate- 
rially aiding  in  the  development  of  the  South'a  resources,  and  it  is  but 
fair  that  a  proportionate  amount  of  this  wealth  should  go  toward  the 
education  of  the  colored  race.  Unfortunately,  this  is  not  the  case. 
Larger  opportunity  should  also  be  given  to  the  negroes  to  become 
skilled  laborers,  the  results  at  Tuskegee  demonstrating  that  they  can 
acquire  the  knowledge  which  will  make  them  proficient  in  even  the 
higher  branches  of  mechanical  industry. 

296  '^^^^  FORUM 

President  McKinley  died  happily  in  the  conviction  that  under  his 
administration  the  last  vestige  of  sectionalism  had  disappeared.  Presi- 
dent Taft  can  go  still  further.  He  can  help  the  South  in  her  effort 
toward  that  material  development  which  her  fertile  soil,  her  forests, 
her  mines,  her  splendid  sea-coast  harbors  and  her  internal  waterways 
so  abundantly  prophesy.  He  can  treat  her  people  with  genuine  con- 
sideration; he  can  respect  their  traditions,  even  though  he  may  not 
adopt  them;  and  he  can  dispassionately  and  wisely  influence  both  the 
negro  race  and  its  white  environment  mutually  to  advance  each  other^s 
interests.  All  this  can  be  accomplished  without  raising  the  spectre  of 
social  equality — a  phrase  that  has  done  more  toward  preventing  har- 
monious relation  between  the  races  in  the  South  than  any  other  two 
words  in  the  English  language.  President  Taft,  in  all  his  utterances, 
has  carefully  avoided  reference  to  this  disturbing  element.  Evidently 
he  does  not  regard  it  as  a  possibility,  much  less  as  a  serious  menace.  He 
wants  the  South  to  prosper  and  the  negro  to  advance,  and  he  believes 
that  these  desiderata  are  linked  together.  It  is  happily  within  his 
power — as  it  seems  to  be  within  his  ambition — ^to  achieve  both  desirable 
results.  Henry  Litchfield  West. 



Around  the  world  I\e  been  in  many  a  guise, 
In  cape,  or  furs,  or  oilskin,  fronting  Fate; 
Down  rainy  seas,  through  many  a  stormy  strait. 
By  upland  forests,  over  hills  that  rise 
White,  green,  or  crimson  in  the  season  skies; 
Through  civic  arch  and  eagle-crested  gate. 
Imperial  boulevards  and  halls  of  state; 
And  asked  for  Fame — and  failed  of  every  prize. 

Except,  except  the  experienced  eye  and  free, 
And  these  impregnable  old  sides  of  mirth ; 
Except,  except  a  glorious  wisdom,  worth 
All  the  poor  scorn  these  tatters  bring  to  me: 
Some  feeling  for  the  massy  bulk  of  earth. 
Some  still  monitions  of  mortality. 

William  Ellery  Leonard. 



In  concluding,  in  the  January  number  of  The  Forum,  the  review 
of  the  extraordinary  "after-election  boom^^  on  the  Stock  Exchange  and 
in  general  trade,  I  pointy  out  the  extent  to  which  markets  and  mer- 
chants alike  had  been  influenced  by  the  complete  illusion  regarding  the  / 
actual  facts  of  the  industrial  situation.  The  exact  situation  which  then 
existed,  and  which  was  completely  ignored  in  the  excitement  of  the  day, 
need  not  be  here  described  again;  it  is  necessary,  however,  to  keep  it 
in  mind,  because  the  industrial  and  financial  history  of  the  past  three 
months  has  been  made  up  almost  entirely  of  the  removal  of  these  illu- 
sions from  the  minds  of  the  public  at  large  and  the  return  to  sober 
consideration  of  actual  facts.  The  violence  with  which  the  markets  and 
the  people  have  had  their  eyes  opened,  and  the  suddenness  with  which 
the  process  of  disillusionment  has  come  on  the  community  at  large,  have 
at  times  imparted  to  the  events  of  the  past  three  months  an  exciting  and 
even  sensational  character.  Looked  upon  as  a  whole,  it  will  readily  be 
concluded  that  this  was  an  inevitable  sequel  to  the  curious  mental  atti- 
tude maintained  by  the  financial  world,  particularly  during  1908.  To 
what  extent  the  process  of  readjustment  has  been  thorough  and  con- 
clusive, we  shall  find  in  the  course  of  our  narrative. 

It  is  a  fact,  to  which  allusion  has  frequently  been  made  in  the  columns 
of  this  magazine,  that  the  opening  of  a  new  calendar  year  does  not 
necessarily  mean  the  opening  of  a  new  financial  year.  Influences  which 
prevail. on  industrial  and  financial  markets  during  December  are  very 
apt,  under  ordinary  circumstances,  to  prevail  during  January  also,  and 
for  some  time  afterward.  As  a  rule,  the  new  events  which  shape  the 
financial  future,  and  which  give  distinct  and  definite  character  to  a 
period,  occur  in  April,  when  the  condition  of  the  crops  makes  itself 
known,  or  in  July,  when  the  harvest  is  made  or  marred,  or  in  September, 
when  the  autunm  test  of  the  money  markets'  requirements  and  resources 
is  applied  to  the  situation. 

In  1908,  for  instance,  it  was  not  imtil  April  that  the  actual  character 
of  the  financial  year  disclosed  itself;  it  was  then  that  people  watching 
the  Stock  Exchange,  particularly,  were  able  to  learn  of  the  extent  to 
which  the  notion  that  all  the  after-panic  effects  were  over,  and  that  the 
boom  of  1906  was  about  to  begin  again,  had  seized  on  the  mind  of  the 
community.  Similarly,  in  1907,  it  was  not  imtil  March,  when  what  is 
still  called  the  ''rich  men's  liquidation"  demoralized  all  financial  mar- 

298  ^^^  FORUM 

kets,  that  observant  people  were  able  to  see  the  way  the  wind  was  blow- 
ing. Many  experienced  observers  then  made  up  their  minds  as  to  what 
we  had  in  store  for  us  in  the  autumn.  The  character  of  the  financial 
year  1906  was  by  no  means  plain  imtil  August,  when,  after  a  rather 
prolonged  period  of  hesitation,  the  furious  stock  speculation  for  the  rise 
was  started  by  Union  Pacific's  increase  in  its  dividend.  Finally,  it 
would  be  impossible  to  determine  what  was  the  typical  character, 
financially  speaking,  of  1905  if  one  were  to  review  the  events  of  the 
first  half  of  the  year.  It  was  not  until  September  that  the  double  in- 
fluence of  an  enormous  demand  for  capital  all  over  the  world,  and  of 
steadily  impaired  capital  resources,  came  distinctly  into  view. 

It  was  reasonable,  therefore,  that  people  should  have  expected  at  the 
opening  of  the  present  year  a  continuance  of  the  general  trend  of  things 
which  prevailed  in  1908,  or,  at  any  rate,  a  period  of 
The  Turn  hesitation  before  the  new  order  of  things  should  develop 

in  the  itself.    Precisely  the  contrary  has  happened.    The  new 

Situation  characteristics  of  the  financial  year  1909  were  disclosed 

almost  immediately  with  the  beginning  of  the  calendar 
year,  and  the  three  months'  history  which  I  now  have  to  review  is  of  a 
totally  different  character  from  that  of  the  preceding  quarter. 

As  to  why  this  should  have  been  so,  the  answer  probably  lies  in  the 
abnormal  character  of  the  events  of  1908  itself.  Based,  as  the  financial 
operations  of  the  year  imquestionably  were,  on  complete  illusion  regard- 
ing the  real  industrial  situation,  they  moved  with  increasing  rapidity 
in  the  direction  in  which  the  misunderstanding  of  events  had  started 
them.  The  election  of  Mr.  Taft  had  given  the  final  stimulus  to  this 
singular  mental  attitude;  the  public  itself  had  gone  wild  after  the 
returns  of  November  4th,  and  even  when  the  public  had  abandoned  the 
stock  market,  professional  operators  had  continued  their  manipula- 
tion on  a  scale  of  daring  and  magnitude  almost  parallel  to  that  of  1906. 
But  the  very  violence  of  this  movement  at  the  close  of  1908  made  it 
inevitable  that  the  artificial  impetus  should  exhaust  itself  and  that 
reaction  should  be  prompt.  It  was  perhaps  an  accident  that  this  reac- 
tion should  have  come  at  the  opening  of  the  new  year;  had  it  not  been 
for  the  fact  that  the  November  election  hastened  the  culmination  of  the 
ill-grounded  speculative  movement,  it  is  quite  possible  that  the  illusions 
might  have  been  prolonged  into  1909. 

As  it  was,  the  process  of  disillusionment  was  prompt.  For  one 
thing,  real  facts  which  could  not  be  ignored  began  to  make  their  appear- 
ance shortly  after  the  opening  of  January.    To  mention  the  less  impor- 


tant^  there  were  our  waning  export  trade^  the  continued  deficit  in  the 
Treasury,  and  the  wavering  of  the  copper  market,  which  financial  in- 
terests had  watched  very  keenly,  because  the  upward  or  downward  move- 
ment in  that  commodity  had  for  a  year  or  more  foreshadowed  the  course 
of  financial  speculation. 

Far  more  important  than  any  of  these  considerations,  however,  was 
what  came  to  light  in  the  steel  trade.  Of  what  was  actually  done  in 
coimection  with  the  industry,  I  shall  speak  in  more  detail  later  on.  The 
point  to  notice,  in  explaining  why  sentiment  changed  so  rapidly  at  the 
opening  of  the  year,  is  that  the  data  which  then  came  to  light  put  the 
final  seal  of  proof  on  the  assertion  that  the  after-election  boom  had  no 
logical  basis  in  improving  trade  conditions.  Even  people  who  were  in 
no  sympathy  with  the  excesses  of  that  after-election  movement  were 
impressed  by  the  constant  and  reiterated  news  of  the  starting  up  of 
new  mills  and  the  inrush  of  new  orders.  This  was  especially  the  case 
in  the  steel  and  iron  trades,  and  it  led  to  a  very  general  and  not  unrea- 
sonable belief  that  volume  of  business  in  the  industry,  and  earnings  of 
the  great  Steel  Corporation,  would,  at  all  events,  show  up  handsomely 
for  the  two  months  after  election.  Toward  the  end  of  January  the 
Steel  Corporation  published  its  quarterly  report,  with  the  monthly  net 
earnings  for  the  closing  quarter  of  the  year.  Taken  as  a  whole,  net 
earnings  for  the  quarter  were  3  per  cent,  less  than  in  the  quarter  ending 
September  30th;  19^  per  cent,  less  than  in  the  fourth  quarter  in  1907, 
and  37  per  cent,  less  than  in  the  three  closing  months  of  1906.  They 
were,  in  fact,  the  smallest  since  the  December  quarter  of  1904.  But 
this  was  not  all.  When  the  Steel  Corporation's  net  earnings  for  the 
three  months — October,  November,  and  December — ^were  scrutinized,  the 
surprising  fact  was  disclosed  that  earnings  in  November  were  $650,000 
smaller  than  in  October,  and  that  in  December  they  were  $700,000 
smaller  than  in  November. 

In  other  words,  so  far  from  it  being  true  that  the  two  months  after 

election  had  been  marked  by  vigorous  increase  in  business  and  in  profits, 

there  had  been  a  more  rapid  shrinkage  in  both  than 

had  occurred  at  any  time  since  the  early  part  of  1908. 

111**^"  ^^^^  These  somewhat   surprising  facts,   being   matters   of 

public  record,  had  an  inevitable  effect  on  sentiment, 

and  were  perhaps  the  immediate  cause  of  the  breaking 

of  the  long  illusion.    But  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  larger  causes  were 

at  work.    To  any  one  who  surveys  the  history  of  the  period  following 

previous  great  financial  panics  it  will  be  plain  that  the  slowness  of 

300  ^^^^^  FORUM 

realizing  what  the  after-effects  must  be  has  been  a  striking  incident  in 
all  of  them.  It  is  not  true^  as  is  perhaps  commonly  supposed^  that  after 
a  serious  financial  disaster  of  the  sort^  the  financial  and  commercial  mar- 
kets fall  at  once  into  stagnation^  despondency,  and  decline.  On  the  con- 
trary, almost  all  experience  goes  to  show  that  during  the  year  or  more 
following  the  panic  shock  itself,  there  exists  an  obstinate  optimism  that 
refuses  to  recognize  that  such  after-effects  must  occur  at  all. 

Let  us  take,  for  instance,  the  period  following  1873,  of  which  the 
public  idea  has  usually  been  that  the  panic  marked  the  country's  imme- 
diate entry  into  a  prolonged  and  unbroken  period  of  industrial  and 
financial  stagnation.  Nothing  of  the  kind  was  true.  The  year  1874 
itself  was  marked  by  frequent  spells  of  vigorous  reviyal,  all  of  them  char- 
acterized by  confident  assertion  that  the  iU  effects  of  the  panic  had  at  last 
spent  themselves.  There  was  less  talk,  doubtless,  of  resuming  the  pre- 
vious boom  than  there  was  in  1908,  but  all  the  financial  reviews  of  the 
period  reflected  the  recurrent  feeling  that  great  prosperity  had  by  no 
means  departed  from  the  United  States.  In  September,  1874,  there 
occurred  what  was  described  at  the  time  as  a  genuine  boom,  both  in 
business  and  on  the  Stock  Exchange.  With  the  end  of  the  year,  this 
movement  also  ended.  The  Financial  Chronicle,  writing,  in  January, 
1875,  its  review  of  1874,  remarked  that  the  bright  hopes  which  had 
repeatedly  been  cherished  of  revival  in  trade  and  industry  had  been 
lamentably  disappointed. 

To  come  down  to  more  recent  history,  one  may  inquire  what  hap- 
pened in  the  aftermath  of  the  panic  of  1893.  Early  in  1894,  even  in 
the  face  of  the  tariff  reduction  plan,  there  was  a  brief,  but  rather  sub- 
stantial, revival  of  industry.  How  far  this  revival  would  have  gone 
under  ordinary  circumstances,  and  to  what  extent  the  history  of  1908 
might  thereby  have  been  anticipated,  is  a  matter  of  pure  conjecture.  By 
the  middle  of  the  year,  markets  and  industries  were  alike  confronted  by 
the  disastrous  failure  of  the  com  crop,  by  the  collapse  of  the  Treasury 
gold  reserve — ^a  result  of  the  public  deficit;  by  the  consequent  imminent 
danger  of  a  lapse  to  the  silver  standard,  and  by  a  labor  demonstration 
which  reached,  in  the  middle  of  July,  to  the  proportions  of  industrial 
revolution.  Naturally,  aU  this  checked  the  spirit  of  optimism;  yet, 
when  these  unfavorable  influences  had  spent  their  force,  and  when  the 
Treasury  had  been  protected  through  loans  on  the  domestic  market  and 
through  a  contract  with  a  foreign  syndicate,  the  same  premature  revival 
as  had  been  witnessed  in  1874,  and  as  was  destined  to  be  witnessed  in 
1908,  occurred.  In  1895  iron  was  marked  up  in  less  than  six  months 
from  $9  to  $12,  the  rate  of  production  meantime  increasing  40  per  cent. 


There  did^  in  fact,  oocur  an  actual  trade  boom  which  was  more  real  in 
character  and  longer  in  duration  of  time  than  anything  of  the  sort 
which  happened  in  1908.  Yet  of  1895,  as  of  1908  and  1874,  it 
must  be  said  that  the  movement  of  expansion  and  speculation  was  based 
on  entirely  premature  ideas  regarding  actual  recovery  from  the  panic. 
Precisely  as  the  optimism  of  1874  was  destined  to  disappear  in  the  hard 
times  of  1875  and  1876,  so  the  exaggerated  and  premature  boom  of 
1895  left  the  country's  industrial  position  wholly  abnormal,  our  foreign 
trade  disorganized,  our  merchants'  shelves  loaded  with  goods  for  which 
they  could  not  find  a  market;  and  it  thereby  led  the  way,  directly  and 
inevitably,  to  the  very  distressing  times  of  1896. 

If  one  is  to  draw  comparisons  between  these  after-panic  episodes,  it 
will  have  to  be  admitted  that  the  period  following  the  panic  of  1907 
resembles  more  closely  that  which  followed  1873  than  that  which  fol- 
lowed 1893 — ^not  less  in  that  the  premature  expectations  came  in  the 
very  year  after  the  panic  shock.  Perhaps  it  is  natural  that  the  resem- 
blance should  run  closely  to  the  older  year,  because  we  are  coming 
nowadays  to  learn  more  clearly  that  the  panic  of  1907  itself  was  a 
counterpart,  not  of  1893,  but  of  1873.  Preceded  as  it  was  by  immense 
prosperity,  by  gigantic  speculation,  by  enormous  strain  on  capital,  and 
eventually  by  a  breakdown  of  credit — all  of  which  occurred  in  1873, 
none  in  1893 — the  analogies  between  the  panic  of  a  year  and  a  half 
ago  and  that  of  thirty-six  years  ago  are  extraordinarily  close.  It  does 
not  prove  that  the  history  of  the  after-panic  period  as  a  whole  must 
parallel  that  of  the  epoch  which  followed  1873.  It  is  impossible  that 
the  story  should  be  the  same — ^if  for  no  other  reason  than  for  the  reason 
that  prosperity  in  our  Western  districts  not  only  shows  no  signs  of 
diminishing,  as  it  did  with  great  rapidity  after  1873,  but  is  actually 
increasing  month  by  month,  and  is  probably  greater  at  the  present  time 
than  it  was  on  the  eve  of  the  panic  of  1907.  Nevertheless,  the  analogy 
is  close  enough  to  repay  careful  study  of  what  happened. 

All  financial  markets  up  to  the  very  closing  of  December  were  in  an 
excited  and  highly  stimulated  condition;    it  naturally  followed  that 
when  the  process  of  disillusionment  began  they  would 
have  to  go  down,   and  this  is  what  happened  very 
•    St  'k  promptly.     Some  tangible  provoking  cause  is  usually 

necessary  for  a  movement  of  this  sort,  and  in  the 
present  case  this  requirement  was  supplied  by  a  de- 
cision of  the  United  States  Supreme  Court.    The  New  York  Legislature 
had  by  law  lowered  the  price  of  gas  in  New  York  City  from  $1  per 

302  THE  FORUM 

thousand  cubic  feet  to  eighty  cents;  the  reduction  had  been  contested 
by  the  company  on  constitutional  grounds,  and  the  suit  had  been  carried 
to  the  highest  Federal  Court.  Pending  that  appeal,  the  one-dollar  rate 
was  exacted,  but  the  disputed  twenty  cents  per  thousand  feet  had  been 
placed  in  the  hands  of  trustees,  to  be  held  for  the  benefit  of  the  com- 
pany if  the  Court  should  rule  in  its  favor,  and  for  the  benefit  of  con- 
sumers if  the  law  should  be  uphdd. 

On  Januaiy  4th  the  Supreme  Court  upheld  the  law,  and  Consolidated 
Gas  stock,  which  had  been  raised  40  per  cent  in  the  last  month  of  1908 
on  the  happy-go-lucky  theory  that  the  Court  would  certainly  rule  in  the 
company^s  favor,  broke  with  extreme  violence.  With  it  the  general 
market  broke,  and  this  led  many  people  hastily  to  infer  that  the  whole 
reaction  was  the  result  of  the  Supreme  Court's  attitude.  How  little 
cause  there  was  for  such  an  inference  was  very  soon  made  manifest. 

During  several  weeks  a  singular  situation  had  existed  in  the  steel 
trade.  Beaders  of  The  Forum  will  recall  that  when,  in  the  early  months 
of  1908,  strong  pressure  was  brought  to  bear,  on  the 
War  of  Steel  Trust  particularly,  for  a  large  reduction  of  prices 

Prices  in  in  deference  to  the  reduced  consumption  and  the  im- 

Steel  Trade  paired  resources  of  consumers,  the  chairman  of  the 

Steel  Corporation  had  replied  that  ^'the  fact  that  the 
demand  is  less  than  the  supply  does  not  furnish  an  argument  for  lower- 
ing the  price'';  that  ^^in  neither  case  would  the  quantity  bought  and 
sold  be  more  or  less,"  and  that  on  those  grounds  he  had  opposed  all 
reduction  in  the  price  of  steel.  A  little  while  afterward,  on  an  insistent 
demand  of  independent  producers,  a  slight  cut  from  $28  to  $25  per  ton 
had  been  made  in  one  class  of  steel,  but  it  had  been  almost  unanimously 
recognized  in  the  trade  that  this  did  not  meet  the  situation.  In  the 
first  place,  it  was  pointed  out  that  even  after  this  slight  reduction  prices 
for  steel  were  being  maintained  on  the  basis  of  the  boom  times.  It  was 
pointed  out  in  Pittsburg  that,  despite  that  small  revision,  steel  billets 
were  $5.50  higher  than  in  1904,  and  $10.50  higher  than  in  1898;  that 
plates  were  $2.70  and  $10.00  higher,  respectively,  than  in  the  same  two 
years,  and  that  even  iron  was  $4.40  above  the  low  price  of  1904. 

In  other  words,  the  steel  business  was  dependent  on  recovery  in  com- 
mercial activity  on  the  part  of  a  paralyzed  and  hard-pressed  community, 
with  consumption  scarcely  60  per  cent,  of  normal,  and  with  the  con- 
suming public's  economies  rigidly  enforced,  and  yet  was  expecting  this 
weakened  customer  to  pay  such  prices  as  had  been  exacted  from  it  in 
years  like  1906  and  1905.    The  policy  was  paradoxical.    To  argue,  as 


the  head  of  the  Steel  Trust  did,  that  his  company  had  not  exacted  in 
1906  as  high  prices  as  it  might  have  done,  and  that  therefore  it  was 
entitled  to  refuse  extreme  concessions  now,  did  not  meet  the  case  at  all. 
It  was,  no  doubt,  sufiScient  answer  to  such  people  as  might  have  asked 
that  steel  prices  be  cut  instantly  in  two,  as  happened  after  most  of  our 
former  panics;  but  it  certainly  provided  insuflBcient  ground  for  main- 
tenance of  such  prices  as  these. 

Furthermore,  the  position  of  the  independent  steel  manufacturers 
was  becoming  somewhat  desperate.  One  of  the  largest  of  these  inde- 
pendent companies  reported  later  that  in  1908  gross '  earnings  had  de- 
creased no  less  than  54  per  cent,  from  the  preceding  year,  and  that  its 
$2,M3,000  surplus  of  1907  had  been  turned  into  a  deficit  of  $1,326,000 
in  1908.  The  Steel  Trust  itself  had  suffered  during  1908  a  decrease  of 
35  per  cent,  in  gross  earnings,  as  compared  with  1907 ;  but  it  had  still 
earned  a  considerable  surplus  over  the  dividend  on  its  common  stock, 
and  this,  along  with  its  great  accumulated  resources,  made  it  possible 
for  the  big  corporation  to  stand  against  difficulties  which  threatened  to 
overwhelm  its  smaller  competitors.  At  all  events,  it  seems  that  these 
independent  steel  makers,  whose  production  constitutes  between  30  and 
40  per  cent,  of  the  output  of  the  trade,  made  up  their  minds  that  in  the 
existing  situation  they  must  at  all  events  get  business  on  what  terms 
they  could. 

Secret  cutting  of  prices  by  these  independent  companies  began  on  a 
considerable  scale  with  the  opening  of  January.  Its  existence  was 
denied  in  many  steel  trade  circles,  and  to  a  large  extent  it  is  possible 
that  its  real  significance  was  ignored.  Finally,  however,  the  actual  facts 
of  the  situation  thrust  themselves  forward  with  such  striking  emphasis 
that  they  could  no  longer  be  overlooked.  The  most  conservative  trade 
organs  began  to  talk  out  with  much  unusual  emphasis.  The  Iron  Age 
flatly  declared  that  in  the  existing  condition  of  the  industry  nothing 
but  a  broad  and  deep  cut  would  restore  equilibrium  in  the  trade,  and  it 
intimated  that  financial  afiiliations  of  leading  interests  in  the  trade 
might  prevent  even  that. 

But  the  time  was  past  when  even  what  was  popularly  called  '^Vall 
Street  domination"  in  the  steel  trade  could  be  of  any  avail.  On 
February  19th  it  was  suddenly  announced  by  the  head  of  the  United 
States  Steel  Corporation  that  all  previous  schedule  prices  and  fixed 
agreements  were  abrogated,  and  that  from  that  time  on,  until  further 
notice,  there  would  be  an  **open  market"  in  the  steel  trade.  This  meant 
competitive  cutting  and  competitive  searching  for  orders  by  the  billion- 
dollar  corporation  as  well  as  by  all  others.    It  was  followed  immediately 

304:  *Effi  FORUM 

by  reductions  in  prices  of  steel  ranging  from  $5  to  $10  per  ton,  accord- 
ing to  the  articles  affected  and  the  nature  of  the  business. 

Naturally,  such  a  decision  disconcerted  and  alarmed  the  financial 
market.  It  was  followed  by  great  demoralization  on  the  Stock  Exchange. 
The  point  to  keep  in  mind  is  that  an  open  market  in  the  steel  trade  had 
not  been  witnessed  since  the  Steel  Corporation  itself  was  organized  in 
1901;  in  fact,  the  purchase  of  the  Carnegie  Company  and  the  organiza- 
tion of  the  Trust  itself  were  effected  by  Mr.  Morgan  primarily  in  order 
to  put  an  end  to  price  wars.  In  the  preceding  year,  1900,  when  the 
financial  distress  of  England  and  Germany,  consequent  on  the  Boer 
War,  had  cut  off  the  foreign  demand  for  American  steel,  an  open  mar- 
ket had  been  witnessed,  in  the  course  of  which  steel  was  cut  from  $41 
per  ton  to  $17.  In  the  period  following  the  panic  of  1893  steel  prices 
fell  from  $22  per  ton  in  the  middle  of  the  panic  year  to  $15  in  the 
ensuing  March.  Nothing  of  the  kind  had  been  witnessed  since  the 
organization  of  the  Steel  Trust;  the  $4  cut  of  September,  1904,  in  the 
temporary  depression  of  that  period,  was  a  formal  lowering  of  the 
scheduled  price  in  which  all  manufacturers  participated  and  which  left 
the  trade  agreement  as  to  maintenance  of  prices  exactly  where  it  was 

What  will  be  the  upshot  in  the  present  situation  is  a  matter  of  con- 
jecture; as  this  is  written,  the  price  war  and  the  open  market  are  stili 
in  active  progress,  though  by  no  means  with  the  virulence  which  has 
marked  previous  episodes  of  the  sort.  It  is  reasonable  to  suppose  that, 
ap  time  goes  on,  the  overshadowing  power  of  the  United  States  Steel  Cor- 
poration will  make  itself  felt  in  the  way  of  averting  complete  demoraliza- 
tion and  of  gradually  bringing  about  a  more  normal  condition  at  a 
level  of  prices  properly  adapted  to  the  consumer's  situation.  When  that 
occurs,  and  when  it  is  evident  tliat  there  will  be  no  further  violent 
smash  of  steel  prices,  it  will  be  time  to  look  for  the  consujjier  on  a  scale 
on  which  he  has  not  yet  been  willing  to  send  in  his  orders. 

This  depression,  with  the  resultant  somewhat  violent  readjustment 
of  prices,  was  felt  in  numerous  other  trades,  chiefiy,  however,  and  quite 

naturally,  in  trades  such  as  copper  and  lead,  where  the 
Fall  in  P^^^®  ^^^  ^^^  dominated  by  a  powerful  corporation. 

Other  In  the  case  of  copper,  the  history  of  1908  had  been  a 

Metals  little  different  from  that  of  steel.    Copper  had  been  put 

up  to  26  cents  a  poimd  on  the  eve  of  the  panic  of  1907. 
During  the  panic,  after  a  prolonged  decline  forced  by  the  accumulation 
of  stocks,  it  fell  to  12^  cents  in  October,  1907.    In  1908,  however,  a  rapid 


recovery  began,  in  the  course  of  which  the  price  was  marked  up  during 
the  election  boom  to  14f  cents. 

It  was  rather  generally  believed,  at  the  close  of  1908,  that  the  Amal- 
gamated Copper  Company,  which  was  mainly  behind  the  movement  to 
put  up  prices  in  the  trade,  would  be  able  to  raise  the  price  considerably 
higher  still.  This  notion  was  based,  however,  on  the  supposition  that 
trade  and  consequently  demand  for  copper  were  bound  to  revive — an 
expectation  which  had  been  similarly  indulged  in  by  the  Steel  Trust. 
Nothing  of  the  sort  happened  in  copper,  any  more  than  in  steel,  and 
from  the  highest  price  of  January,  which  was  14J  cents,  copper  declined 
with  great  rapidity,  touching  12^  cents  again  on  March  16th,  with  some 
sales  at  lower  prices.  This  was  an  extremely  low  price  for  copper,  as  may 
be  judged  from  the  fact  that,  except  for  the  two  or  three  days  in  the  panic 
of  1907,  no  such  price  had  been  reached  at  any  time  since  1902.  It  was, 
however,  warranted  by  the  statistical  showing  of  the  trade.  At  the 
beginning  of  the  present  year,  the  copper  producers  organized  an  associa- 
tion to  report  on  production,  consumption,  and  stocks  on  hand — 
information  which  had  been  suppressed  ever  since  the  Amalgamated 
Copper  Company  was  organized.  The  first  monthly  reports  of  this 
association  were  a  little  startling.  Production,  in  the  face  of  the  trade 
reaction,  was  shown  to  be  at  the  highest  mark  in  the  history  of  the 
American  trade,  whereas  consumption  was  not  much  more  than  60  per 
cent,  of  normal.  The  result  was  that  in  January  21,772,000  pounds 
of  copper  accumulated  unsold  in  the  hands  of  producers  or  dealers,  and 
in  February,  29,164,000.  At  other  times  of  such  accumulation — ^in 
1902,  for  instance — ^the  surplus  was  disposed  of  through  enormous 
exports  to  Europe.  But  Europe  was  also  hard  pressed  at  the  beginning 
of  1909;  its  consumption  of  copper  had  decreased  almost  as  much  as 
ours.  At  the  end  of  January,  stocks  of  copper  in  Europe  and  afloat  for 
Europe  were  52,935  tons,  as  against  42,134  at  the  end  of  July,  1908, 
and  20,660  at  the  end  of  January  a  year  ago.  Our  exports  in  1909  were 
on  as  small  a  scale  as  our  home  consumption. 

It  will  be  seen  that  the  statistical  situation  fully  justified  the  low 
price  quoted,  notwithstanding  the  fact  that  for  many  copper  producers 
a  twelve-cent  price  is  unremunerative.  All  other  metals  moved  simi- 
larly, reaching  a  low  level  of  depression  during  March.  In  this  they 
merely  repeated  experience,  the  teaching  of  all  our  previous  episodes  of 
after-panic  reaction  being  that  raw  materials  of  manufacture  are  the 
first  and  the  worst  sufferers.  This  is  a  logical  enough  result  of  the  gen- 
eral curtailment  in  consumption  and  in  manufacture.  It  must  be  said 
that  in  the  present  case  it  was  an  equally  logical  result  of  the  extravagant 

306  "^^  fOBUM 

inflation  of  prices  for  all  of  these  OHnniodities^  widchy  under  tlie  anspices 
of  the  dominating  trusts^  had  been  indnlged  in  during  1906  and  1907. 

It  cannot  be  said,  howerer,  that  this  same  moreraent  of  extreme 
depression  ran  through  eveiy  oflier  trade;  for  the  dry  goods  trade  reports 

were  comparatiTelj  optimistie  at  the  Teiy  time  when 
One  Trade  ^^  metal  trades  were  at  thdr  worst.    It  is  tme,  prices 

which  for  textiles  were  by  no  means  up  to  the  level  of  the  boom 

Prospered  times.     It  was  pointed  ont,  in  Febmary,  that  print 

goods  were  sdling  then  at  5  cents  a  yard,  as  against  7 
before  the  panic  of  1907;  silks  at  85  cents  against  $1.05;  sheetings  at 
8f  cents  against  12;  ginghams  at  5f  cents  against  7.  Nevertheless, 
these  prices  were  better  than  had  been  commanded  in  the  middle  of  1908, 
and,  what  was  more  important,  trade  was  on  a  basis  of  eqnilibrinm,  the 
goods  going  promptly  into  consumers'  hands  and  tibe  amount  of  mer- 
chandise sold  being  close  to  normal  The  reason  for  this  difference  in 
the  dry  goods  trade,  from  the  experience  of  the  metal  industries,  is  not 
far  to  seek.  It  will  be  remembered  that  when  evidence  of  the  severe 
decline  in  consuming  power  was  manifest,  three  or  four  months  after 
the  panic  of  1907,  the  dry  goods  trade,  which  is  not  dominated  by  a 
trust,  met  the  situation  promptly  in  the  old-fashioned  way,  cutting  pro- 
duction 15  per  cent.,  wages  10  per  cent.,  and  prices  25  to  50  per  cent. 
In  other  words,  the  dry  goods  trade  took  its  medicine  early  in  1908  and 
was  fully  entitled  to  the  better  times  which  its  merchants  found  in  1909. 
When  one  surveys  the  movement  of  prices  in  general,  or  what  may  be 
called  the  average  price  movement,  the  index  numbers  read  very  cu- 
riously, in  the  light  of  what  we  have  just  surveyed.  Taking,  for  in- 
stance, the  London  Economises  index  number,  we  shall  find  that  low 
level  for  the  after-panic  year  was  reached  on  September  1,  1908,  when 
the  index  was  2168.  From  this  figure  there  was  a  gradual  recovery,  the 
index  number  finally  appearing  to  settle  arouiid  a  fixed  level.  It  was 
2,198  on  December  Ist,  2,197  at  the  opening  of  January,  2,196  in  Feb- 
ruary, and  2,190  in  March.  These  comparisons  raise  two  natural  ques- 
tions. Producers,  in  the  first  place,  are  likely  to  ask  how  such  stabiliiy 
of  the  general  price  average  should  have  been  possible  during  the  very 
months  when,  as  we  have  seen,  metals  were  falling  in  price  with  great 
rapidity.  Consumers,  in  the  meantime,  will  ask  why  there  has  been 
no  relief  from  excessive  cost  of  living  through  the  falling  prices,  of 
which  they  hear  so  much  ?  The  answer  is  the  same  to  both  questions — 
the  fall  in  metal  prices  has  been  fully  offset  by  the  extraordinary  rise 
of  the  period  in  prices  of  agriculture. 


The  wheat  situation  has  itself  become  sensational  during  the  past 
few  weeks.     In  December,  cash  wheat  on  the  Chicago  market  ranged 
around  $1.00  per  bushel.     From  that  figure  a  rise 
Violent  occurred  to  $1.10   in  January;    then,   with  the  last 

Rise  in  week  of  February,  there  began  a  violent  upward  rush 

^^^*  to  $1.26,  in  the  course  of  which  speculators,  profes- 

sional and  otherwise,  rushed  into  the  wheat  market 
with  almost  as  much  vehemence  as  the  Wall  Street  professionals  and  the 
public  had  invaded  the  stock  market  after  last  year's  election.  The"" 
price  of  $1.26,  reached  at  the  close  of  February,  was,  in  fact,  the  highest 
touched  on  the  Chicago  market  at  any  time  since  Leiter^s  wheat  comer  in 
1898.  How  much  above  the  average  price  it  was  may  be  judged  from  the 
subjoined  table  of  high  and  low  wheat  prices  on  the  cash  market  at 
Chicago  during  the  intervening  period :  gj  i^  ^o^ 

1008 $1.11,     June  $0.84%, July 

1907 1.22,     Oct.  .71,     Jan. 

1906 94%,  May  .691/8,  Sept. 

1905 1 .24,      Feb.  .78%,  Sept. 

1904 1.22,     Dec.  .81%,  Jan. 

1003 93,      Sept.  .70%,March 

1002 95,      Sept.  .67%,  Oct. 

1001 79%,  Dec.  .63y8,  July 

1000 87%,  June  .61%,  Jan. 

1800 70%,  May  .64,     Dec. 

1808 1.86,     May  .62,     Oct. 

The  larger  reasons  for  this  rise  in  wheat  are  not  at  all  mysterious; 
they  have  already  been  pointed  out  in  the  pages  of  this  magazine.  The 
world's  wheat  crop  of  1907  was  less  by  325,000,000  bushels  than  in 
1906,  and  less  by  212,000,000  bushels  than  in  1905.  These  are 
declines  of  7  and  10  per  cent.,  respectively;  the  wheat  crop  of  1907 
being,  in  fact,  the  smallest  world's  crop  since  1901.  Population,  and, 
consequently,  use  of  .wheat  as  of  other  necessities  of  life,  had  in  the 
meantime  been  steadily  increasing.  It  had  been  hoped  that  the  shortage 
of  1907,  especially  in  Europe,  would  be  made  good  by  an  abundant  crop 
in  1908.  This  did  not  happen;  crops  in  this  country,  in  Australia  and 
in  Asia,  were  slightly  larger  last  year  than  in  the  year  before,  but 
Europe  itself  produced  less  even  than  in  1907.  The  English  expert 
Broomhall  makes  these  estimates  of  the  European  harvest  for  the  past 
eight  years:  ^^^^^^^  ^^^^^^^ 

1008 1,504,000,000    1004 1,747,262,000 

1007 1,616,086,000    1903 1,830,526,000 

1006 1,826,422,000    1002 1,817,602,000 

1006 1,803,132,000    1001 : 1,513,663,000 

Our  own  Agricultural  Department,  estimating  in  March,  this  year,  on 
the  whole  world's  wheat  crop  of  1908,  showed  3,172,814,000  bushels  as 

308  THE  FORUM 

against  3,142,160,000  in  1907  and  3,432,688,000  in  1906.  The  increase 
over  the  deficient  1907  crop  was  only  30,000,000  hushels,  and  all  of  this 
was  accounted  for  hy  the  30,600,000  increase  in  the  United  States  alone, 
which  left  a  crop  here  of  only  ordinary  magnitude. 

Under  such  conditions  it  was  inevitable  that  the  stock  of  wheat  in 
the  world's  storehouses  should  fall  to  very  low  figures.  At  the  end  of 
last  year's  harvest  Europe's  granaries  contained  22  per  cent,  less  of 
wheat  than  they  held  a  year  before,  and  all  the  rushing  forward  of 
American  wheat  to  market  last  autumn  left  the  stock  of  wheat  on  hand 
in  Europe  and  America  combined  in  February  of  the  present  year  only 
137,000,000  bushels,  as  against  144,000,000  at  the  same  date  in  1908 
and  160,000,000  in  1907.  It  was  this  situation  on  which  the  speculators 
in  wheat  were  banking  in  their  February  movement  at  Chicago. 

There  was  one  uncertain  point  in  their  calculations  which  has  not 
even  yet  been  wholly  cleared  up,  but  on  which  some  interesting  light 
has  subsequently  been  thrown.  This  was  the  question  of  farm  reserves. 
When  wheat  gets  up  to  such  extraordinary  prices  as  those  of  February, 
it  is  a  question  of  supreme  importance  how  much  of  the  grain  is  left  in 
the  hands  of  farmers,  who  are  liable  to  respond  to  the  high  bid  of  the 
market.  There  has  been  much  dispute  as  to  what  was  left  over  in  this 
way  from  the  harvest  of  1908.  Some  Chicago  experts  had  made  esti- 
mates as  low  as  100,000,000  bushels,  where  148,000,000  was  the  figure 
reported  by  the  Government  in  March  last  year,  and  206,000,000 
bushels  at  the  same  time  in  1907.  The  best  known  private  expert  of  the 
Chicago  wheat  trade  had  figured  out  123,000,000.  On  March  8th  the 
Agricultural  Department  gave  out  its  fall  estimate  on  these  farm  re- 
serves. It  was  somewhat  sensational  in  character,  but  not  in  the  way 
which  had  been  expected  by  the  trade.  The  Government  estimated 
143,000,000  bushels  in  the  hands  of  farmers,  or  only  5,000,000  less  than 
in  the  preceding  year.  Although  this  estimate  was  vigorously  disputed 
by  the  trade,  it  had  the  inevitable  effect  of  checking  the  rise  in  wheat 
and  forcing  a  slow  and  irregular  reaction.  To  what  extent  this  down- 
ward movement  is  destined  to  go,  or  to  what  extent  prices  will  rise  still 
higher,  depends  on  other  factors,  among  them  on  the  highly  disputed 
question,  how  much  wheat  will  be  raised  and  exported  in  Argentine, 
which  is  at  present  this  country's  principal  competitor  for  the  foreign 
grain  trade?  At  present,  estimates  there  are  less  favorable  than  they 
were  a  few  months  earlier  in  the  South  American  harvest  season.  But, 
in  the  meantime,  relatively  high  prices  are  inevitable  in  the  great  agri- 
cultural food  stuffs,  and  unfortunately  must  serve  to  keep  up  the  price 
of  living  amongst  even  the  poor. 


The  eflfect  of  all  of  these  various  incidents  on  the  Stock  Exchange  dur- 
ing the  past  few  months  has  heen  to  paralyze  all  activity.    The  period  of 

dulness  which  has  occurred  has  been  of  unusual  length, 
Dulness  on  ^^^9  except  in  midsununer,  would  be  difiBcult  to  match 

the  Stock  without  going  back  a  decade.    Undoubtedly  it  marks  a 

Exchange  changing  tendency  from  the  feverishly  and  unnaturally 

excited  stock  markets  of  last  year.  As  is  always  Wall 
Street's  habit,  this  unwelcome  dulness  was  ascribed  to  everything  except 
the  obvious  causes.  At  first  it  was  declared  that  the  market  was  waiting 
for  Inauguration  Day  and  for  the  end  of  the  Boosevelt  administration, 
of  which  Wall  Street  had  professed  itself  so  much  afraid.  The  inaugu- 
ration came  and  was  received  by  the  markets  with  complete  apathy.  Mr. 
Taft's  inaugural  did  not  go  very  extensively  into  details,  but  on  the 
question  of  the  Boosevelt  policies  made  this  pregnant  declaration: 

I  should  be  untrue  to  myself,  to  my  promises,  and  to  the  declarations  of  the 
party  platform  upon  which  I  was  elected,  if  I  did  not  make  the  maintenance  and 
enforcement  of  those  reforms  a  most  important  feature  of  my  administration. 
They  were  directed  to  the  suppression  of  the  lawlessness  and  abuses  of  the  great 
combinations  of  capital  invested  in  railroads  and  industrial  enterprises.  .  .  . 
The  steps  which  my  predecessor  took,  and  the  legislation  passed  on  his  recom- 
mendation, have  accomplished  much,  have  caused  a  general  halt  in  the  vicious 
policies  which  created  popular  alarm,  and  have  brought  about,  in  the  business 
affected,  a  much  higher  regard  for  the  existing  law. 

To  which  he  added : 

Relief  of  the  railroads  from  certain  restrictions  of  the  Anti-Trust  Law  has 
been  urged  by  my  predecessor  and  will  be  urged  by  me.  On  the  other  hand,  the 
Administration  is  pledged  to  legislation  looking  to  a  proper  Federal  supervision 
and  restriction  to  prevent  excessive  issues  of  bonds  and  stocks  by  companies  own- 
ing and  operating  interstate  commerce  railroads. 

Manifestly,  if  Wall  Street  had  the  idea  that  immunity  on  the  part 
of  offending  corporations  against  prosecution  was  to  be  promised  by  the 
new  administration  it  was  disappointed.  But,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  the 
change  in  administration  had  no  effect,  and  had  no  reason  to  have  any 
effect,  on  the  condition  of  the  Stock  Exchange. 

When  this  landmark  failed  to  bring  about  reviving  activity,  it  was 

declared  that  the  markets  were  waiting  for  the  tariff  bill.    In  this  idea 

there  was  something  more  of  reason;    for  alterations 

in  the  tariff,  either  up  or  down,  can  hardly  occur  with- 

Tariff  ^^^  some  effect  on  business  conditions.    Where  they  are 

in  the  nature  of  reductions  of  duty,  as  was  expected  of 

the  pending  tariff,  it  will  be  inevitable  that  business 

plans  will  at  least  be  deferred  in  many  cases  until  merchants  can  know 

310  '^^BE  FORCM 

eiBctlj  what  the  new  echediiles  are  to  be.  This  is  as  true  of  importers^ 
who  would  welcome  an  actual  free  trade  bill,  as  of  mannfactnrera,  who 
wish  eren  more  protection.  The  tariff  bill  came  np  for  consideration 
at  the  extra  session  of  Congreas  on  the  17th  of  March.  It  proved  to  be 
quite  Bs  drastic  in  its  cuts  as  any  one  had  expected.  The  House  Com- 
mittee placed  iron  ore  and  hides  on  the  free  list;  the  duty  on  pig  iron 
was  reduced  one-third,  the  steel  rail  duty  one-half.  In  many  other 
important  directions,  readjustment  of  large  scope  was  proposed.  The 
stock  market  received  the  news  without  emotion,  became  dull  for  three 
or  four  days  after  the  Ways  and  Means  Committee's  announcements, 
then  started  in  to  rise  again. 

Possibly  this  reception  was  a  reasonable  forecast  of  the  reception 
which  industry  at  large  will  give  to  tariff  revision.  The  notion  that 
industrial  and  financial  markets  have  invariably  been  upset  through  a 
prolonged  period  by  revision  oi  the  tariff,  especially  in  the  direction  of 
lower  duties,  is  hardly  borne  out  by  the  facts.  The  idea  is  based,  no 
doubt,  chiefly  on  the  experience  of  1894,  when  a  tariff  reduction 
bill  was  certainly  followed  by  genuine  hard  times.  The  truth  about 
1894,  however,  which  may  be  easily  ascertained  from  any  financial 
review  of  the  period,  is  that  the  Wilson  tariff,  on  its  introduction  and 
during  the  debate  upon  it,  was  received  with  something  like 
indifference  by  the  financial  markets.  There  was,  in  fact,  a  rather  sub- 
stantial rise  in  prices  during  the  very  period  when  the  debate  was 

By  the  time  the  bill  had  been  enacted,  however,  there  occurred  three 
other  incidents  which  had  no  possible  connection  with  the  tariff  bill, 
but.  which  wholly  superseded  it  in  their  influence  on  business.  These 
w(jre  the  com  crop  failure,  the  Railway  Union  strike,  which  amounted  to 
an  industrial  revolt,  and  the  piling  up  of  a  $69,000,000  deficit  in  the 
Treasury,  which  forced  the  Government  into- an  unfavorable  loan  market 
and  threatened  the  absolute  destruction  of  the  gold  reserve  for  redemp- 
tion of  legal  tenders.  So  complete  was  the  attention  of  the  financial 
community  at  the  time  converged  on  these  formidable  influences  that 
little  was  said  in  the  discussion  on  the  day^s  financial  market  of  the 
tariff  bill  as  an  influence.  It  was  only  in  1896,  when  a  Presidential 
campaign  was  impending,  that  Senator  John  Sherman  brought  forward 
the  argument  that  the  distresses  of  1894  came  altogether  from  "passing 
a  law  reducing  revenue  below  expenditures  for  the  first  time  since  the 
Civil  War.*^ 

Now,  in  the  first  place,  the  $69,000,000  deficit  of  the  fiscal  year  1894, 
all  of  which  was  piled  up  before  June  30th  of  that  year,  occurred  while 


the  schedules  of  the  McKinley  tariflf  of  1890  were  in  full  operation; 
and,  in  the  second  place,  aa  we  have  seen  already,  there  were  far  greater 
influences  at  work  in  creating  the  hard  times  of  the  year  than  could 
have  been  exerted  by  any  tariff  bill.  Whether  the  Wall  Street  idea  of 
the  present  season,  regarding  the  influence  of  the  tariff  controversy,  has 
been  influenced  by  the  extraordinary  speeches  of  Mr.  Taft  last  autumn, 
on  the  subject  of  the  Wilson  Bill  and  the  panic  of  1893,  may 
be  left  to  conjecture.  The  point  of  interest  is  that  up  to  the  present 
time  the  stock  market  has  received  the  tariff  reduction  propositions  in 
a  spirit  of  entire  calmness — ^this  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  other  and 
larger  influences  were  at  work  which  might  easily  have  explained  a 
further  drop  in  prices. 

All  this  leaves  the  future  of  our  finance  and  industry  much  more 
than  usually  a  matter  of  conjecture.     On  the  one  hand,  we  have  the 
spectacle  of  industrial  depression  throughout  almost 
the  whole  domain  of  American  industry,  that  depression 
Q  *     ,  being  acute  and  giving  little  promise  of  immediate  re- 

lief. On  the  other  hand,  we  have,  first,  the  assurance 
that,  in  this  very  lowering  of  prices,  the  preliminary 
steps  toward  normal  readjustment  of  trade  conditions  have  been  taken 
as  they  were  not  taken — except  in  the  textile  industry — during  1908 — 
and,  second,  the  assurance  that  continued  prosperity  in  the  agricul- 
tural West  guarantees  a  consuming  market,  which  has  never  before 
existed  so  soon  after  a  great  financial  panic.  Mr.  Morgan's  dictum  that 
"the  man  who  is  a  bear  on  American  prosperity  will  go  broke'*  is  as  true 
to-day  as  it  ever  was,  and  it  is  equally  true  that  the  real  strength  of 
industrial  America  has  been  displayed  in  the  aftermath  of  hard  times, 
when  speculative  illusions  and  speculative  values  had  disappeared,  and 
when  our  merchants  and  producers  were  grappling  vigorously  with  the 
realities.  But  the  great  achievements  of  those  periods  have  never  come 
until  after  a  thorough  readjustment  of  prices,  production,  and  con- 

Alexander  D.  Noyes. 



Thebe  exists  among  officers  and  enlisted  men  of  the  army  and  navy 
a  misapprehension  regarding  their  relations  to  the  Government  in  the 
matter  of  patents.  There  is  a  vague  belief  that  patent  laws  apply  only  to 
civilians  and  that  officers  of  the  army  or  of  the  navy  are  estopped  from 
taking  out  patents;  or,  if  they  do  so,  whatever  may  be  the  nature  of 
these  patents,  the  Government  has  the  right  to  appropriate  them  for  its 
own  use. 

This  impression  is  calculated  to  defeat  the  very  purpose  for  which 
provision  was  made  in  the  Constitution  for  the  establishment  of  a  patent 
system.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  officers  and  enlisted  men  of  the  army  and 
navy  have  all  the  rights  under  the  Constitution  and  under  the  patent 
laws  of  any  other  citizen  of  the  United  States.  Without  the  incentive  of 
reward,  in  the  shape  either  of  honors  or  preferment  or  money,  men 
cannot  be  expected  to  devote  their  means  and  the  time  outside  of  their 
regular  duties  to  the  creation  of  inventions. 

It  will  lead  to  a  better  understanding  of  this  question  to  give  a  brief 
description  of  the  patent  system  as  it  obtains  in  the  United  States.  The 
Constitution  provides  that,  in  order  to  promote  the  progress  of  science 
and  the  useful  arts.  Congress  may  secure  to  authors  and  inventors  for 
limited  times  the  exclusive  right  to  their  writings  and  discoveries,  and 
our  patent  system  has  grown  up  under  laws  made  in  accordance  with 
this  wise  constitutional  provision.  The  inventor,  under  the  law,  takes 
nothing  from  the  public  nor  can  he  monopolize  any  knowledge  the  public 
already  possesses;  he  can  only  take  that  which  he  creates,  and  the  par- 
ticular creation — the  new  knowledge  or  new  piece  of  properiy  brought 
by  him  into  being — can  only  be  taken  for  a  period  of  seventeen  years, 
after  which  period  the  public  comes  into  its  possession  by  operation  of 
law.  There  can  be  no  extension  of  this  monopoly  except  by  a  special 
act  of  Congress,  and  this  privilege  is  seldom  or  never  invoked:  conse- 
quently every  year  thousands  of  patents  issued  seventeen  years  before 
become  the  property  of  the  public. 

Under  the  various  laws  enacted  by  Congress  to  carry  out  this  provi- 
sion of  the  Constitution,  a  patent  when  once  granted  to  an  inventor  is  a 
vested  right  and  one  that  cannot  be  taken  away  from  him  except  by  due 
process  of  law.  That  is  to  say,  neither  the  Commissioner  of  Patents,  who 
granted  the  patent,  nor  the  Secretary  of  the  Interior,  under  whose  juris- 


diction  the  patent  oflBce  is  placed,  nor  any  oflBcer  of  the  Government,  has 
any  authority  to  recall  it  or  to  cancel  it.  That  can  only  be  done  through 
the  medium  of  the  court  empowered  to  declare  it  invalid  upon  proof 
showing  fraud,  or  proving  that  the  laws  were  not  complied  with  when  the 
patent  was  originally  issued;  and  this  is  where  our  patent  laws  are  de- 

A  feeling  has  grown  up,  not  only  among  the  public  generally,  but  also 
in  the  Government,  that  a  patent  is  not  to  be  considered  valid  until 
passed  upon  by  the  courts.  I  recall  one  instance  where  the  Government, 
having  entered  into  an  agreement  to  pay  a  royalty  for  the  use  of  a  certain 
invention,  ceased  payment  thereon,  while  still  continuing  to  use  the  in- 
vention, on  the  ground  that  the  validity  of  the  patent  on  which  the  royal- 
ties were  based  had  not  been  determined  by  the  courts. 

As  our  industries  multiply  and  competition  increases,  it  becomes 
more  and  more  important  that  the  rights  of  the  inventor  be  established 
without  his  being  harassed  by  competitors  and  put  to  great  expense  to 
maintain  his  rights.  He  should  be  protected  by  the  Government  which 
has  given  him  this  vested  right. 

The  patent  when  lawfully  issued  carries  with  it  the  exclusive  right  to 
make,  to  use  and  to  vend  the  actual  invention  throughout  the  United 
States  and  the  territories  thereof  for  the  term  of  seventeen  years,  and  no 
person  or  corporation  or  the  Government  itself  can  encroach  upon  this 
right  without  becoming  liable  as  an  infringer. 

There  is  a  popular  misapprehension  in  many  minds  that  a  patent, 
being  a  monopoly,  is  obnoxious  to  democratic  institutions.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  a  patent  is  in  the  nature  of  a  contract  made  between  the  inventor 
on  the  one  hand  and  the  public  on  the  other,  in  which  the  public  agrees 
to  reward  the  inventor  for  the  device  he  has  created,  and  for  the  expense 
he  has  incurred  in  developing  the  invention ;  and  the  inventor  on  his  part 
agrees  to  relinquish  the  rights  with  which  he  has  been  vested  by  the 
Government  to  the  public  after  a  limited  time.  The  consideration  given 
to  the  inventor  by  the  public  is  the  exclusive  right  to  use  his  own  crea- 
tion for  seventeen  years,  and  the  consideration  given  to  the  public  by  the 
inventor  is  the  property  itself  for  all  time  after  the  patent  has  expired. 

Of  course,  it  is  optional  with  the  inventor  whether  or  not  he  wishes 
to  make  this  contract  with  the  Government.  He  may  prefer,  instead  of 
taking  out  a  patent,  to  endeavor  to  keep  his  discovery  a  secret.  If  he 
succeeds  in  this  respect,  it  will  be  his  so  long  as  others  do  not  find  out 
his  secret.  However,  in  modem  times  the  state  of  education  and  intellec- 
tuality has  advanced  to  such  an  extent  that  it  is  next  to  imposible  suc- 
cessfully to  conceal  secret  inventions.    This  has  been  the  experience  with 

314  ^™®  FORUM 

inventions  relating  to  the  art  of  war^  and  it  has  been  found  practically 
impossible  to  protect  secret  processes,  which  have  become  known  in  some 
cases  even  before  they  were  pnt  in  operation. 

There  is  no  doubt  that  there  is  a  great  deal  of  inventive  talent  in 
the  army  and  in  the  navy  which  lies  dormant^  and  this  is  lost  to  the 
Government.  There  are  several  reasons  for  this.  First,  lack  of  knowl- 
edge on  the  part  of  army  and  navy  officers  as  to  their  rights  under  the 
patent  laws ;  and,  second,  lack  of  encouragement  on  the  part  of  the  Gov- 
ernment in  the  way  of  preferment  to  successful  inventors.  Then  again, 
the  exactions  of  the  ofScial  duties  make  it  extremely  difficult  to  develop 
an  invention. 

An  invention  may  be  considered  to  consist  of  two  stages.  First,  the 
creation  of  the  idea,  and,  next,  a  combination  of  means  to  put  this  idea 
into  eflfect.  The  second  is  by  far  the  more  difficult.  An  officer  of  the 
army  or  navy  is,  therefore,  under  present  conditions  much  handicapped 
in  making  inventions  on  account  of  lack  of  opportunity  to  work  out  his 
own  ideas.  Many  officers  complain  that  after  having  submitted  their 
ideas  to  the  Government,  these  ideas  are  pigeon-holed  and  never  devel- 
oped. They  lose  sight  of  the  fact  that  they  are  throwing  the  burden  of 
the  work  upon  others  who  may  not  have  the  ability  to  carry  out  such 
ideas,  and  who,  in  any  event,  could  not  be  expected  to  do  other  than 
choose  the  path  of  least  resistance  and  take  the  view  that  the  idea  is  not 
capable  of  being  successfully  put  into  practice. 

As  stated  before,  an  officer  of  the  army  or  the  navy,  as  well  as  an 
enlisted  man,  has  the  same  right  under  the  patent  laws  as  any  other 
citizen  of  the  United  States,  and  the  (Jovemment  cannot  deprive  him  of 
the  fruits  of  any  invention  that  he  might  make,  subject  to  the  limita- 
tions imposed  by  law — for  the  very  simple  reason  that  patent  rights,  as 
above  stated,  are  vested  private  property,  and  the  Constitution  prohibits 
the  Government  from  taking  private  property  from  its  citizens  without 
just  compensation.  In  fact,  it  has  been  held  by  the  courts  that  Congress, 
in  view  of  this  constitutional  provision,  could  not  pass  a  valid  law 
authorizing  the  Government  to  ignore  vested  patent  rights  without  just 
compensation,  any  more  than  it  could  pass  a  law  authorizing  the  Gov- 
ernment to  appropriate  to  itself  a  farm  or  a  house  or  a  lot  without  just 
compensation.  Even  in  the  exercise  of  its  right  of  eminent  domain,  those 
concerned  have  a  claim  for  relief. 

The  decision  of  the  Supreme  Court  in  the  case  of  United  States  vs. 
Bums  (12  Wall.,  246)  employs  in  part  the  following  language: 

If  an  officer  in  the  military  service,  not  specially  employed  to  make  experi- 
ment! with  a  view  to  suggest  improvements,  devise  a  new  and  valuable  improve- 


ment  in  arms,  tents,  or  any  other  kind  of  war  material,  he  ia  entitled  to  the 
benefit  of  it  and  to  letters  patent  for  the  improvement,  from  the  United  States, 
equally  with  any  other  citizen  not  engaged  in  such  service;  and  the  Qovernment 
cannot,  after  the  patent  is  issued,  make  use  of  the  improvement  any  more  than  a 
private  individual  without  license  of  the  inventor  or  making  compensation  to  him. 

This  means  that  an  officer  must  be  specially  designated  to  make  im- 
provements in  any  branch  whatsoever.  Whether  it  be  in  ordnance  or  in 
construction  or  in  electricity,  he  is  entitled  to  the  benefit  of  anything 
he  might  invent  and  is  at  perfect  liberty  to  sell  the  invention  to  the  Gov- 
ernment, or  to  any  private  individual.  In  case  such  invention  can  be  used 
to  advantage  by  the  Government,  it  is  proper,  but  only  ethically,  that  he 
should  give  the  Government  the  first  opportunity  to  acquire  the  rights 
to  his  invention,  but,  under  the  law,  he  is  not  even  compelled  to  do  this. 

This  does  not  mean  that  the  Government  always  actually  pays  on  its 
own  initiative  for  the  patented  inventions  it  uses,  for  it  sometimes  ignores 
the  military  man,  as  well  as  the  civilian,  as  is  evidenced  by  the  numerous 
suits  which  have  been  brought  against  it.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  the 
Government  has  repeatedly  paid  for  the  inventions  of  its  officers,  and  a 
few  instances  may  be  mentioned  as  follows :  The  Mills  woven  cartridge 
belt,  the  Dashiell  breech  mechanism,  the  Fiske  telescopic  sight,  the  Fiske 
range  finder,  the  Driggs-Schroeder  gun,  the  Fletcher  breech  mechanism, 
and  the  Sibley  tent. 

The  misapprehension  that  exists  in  the  army  and  navy  on  these  points 
is,  no  doubt,  due  to  the  fact  that  the  law  is  such  that  if  an  inventor  while 
in  the  army  or  navy  works  out  an  invention  under  the  direction  of  his 
superior,  using  Government  time  and  Government  facilities  in  perfecting 
the  same,  the  Government  has  a  shop  right  in  the  invention;  but  this 
same  law  applies  to  civil  employers  and  employees  as  well,  and  it  there- 
fore constitutes  no  exception  in  the  case  of  the  military  professions.  This 
shop  right,  however,  extends  only  to  the  Government  itself,  and  cannot 
be  delegated  by  it  to  an  outside  private  concern. 

A  further  misapprehension  regarding  patents  is  general  in  both  mili- 
tary and  civil  walks  of  life,  and  that  is  the  almost  universal  belief  that 
a  patent  taken  out  abroad  prevents  its  use  in  this  country. 

The  facts  are,  that  just  as  a  United  States  patent  is  of  no  eflfect  what- 
ever bejDnd  the  jurisdiction  of  the  United  States,  a  foreign  patent  is  of 
no  effect  whatever  beyond  the  jurisdiction  of  the  government  that  issues 
it.  In  other  words,  a  patent  taken  out  in  the  United  States  may  be 
freely  used  in  all  foreign  countries,  unless  it  is  also  patented  in  tiiose 
countries.  And  again,  the  publication  of  a  patent  in  the  United  States 
will  generally  bar  the  grant  of  an  infringing  patent  in  foreign  countries. 

816  THE  FORUM 

Another  common  misapprehension  is  the  idea  that  it  is  perfectly 
proper  for  an  officer  of  the  army  or  navy